House's Heart
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: AU/ OOC history of Wilson’s abusive relationship with House, culminating in House risking his life to save Amber, and almost dying, just to lose Jimmy. See in side for a full explanation. Slash, violence, angst, etc, my usual warnings.
1. Chapter 1

AN: When I started out, this story was just a slightly OOC experiment in trying to figure out what Wilson was like when he finally relaxes and stops trying to be nice, and make everything perfect for someone he cared about—House—but the more I wrote, the worse he seemed to get. Also, I think that House would never have agreed to do the deep brain stimulation unless Wilson has more power over him than we see on the show. AU/ OOC A history of James and Greg's relationship, in which Wilson is an abusive bastard towards House, culminating in House risking his life to save Amber, and almost dying, just to lose the one person who was ever part way decent to him. I changed the timeline of things again, and think it's totally stereotypical. I'll probably take this down in a day or two.

"I wonder why I stick around; sometimes I wish you would leave.  
You'll say you'll love me forever, then you spit on me.  
Your time is going to come. I swear your time is going to come.  
I don't want to be your whipping boy, your pathetic little loser,  
someone you can ignore.  
I'm not going to let you overwhelm me anymore," Art Alexakis.

My childhood was an absolute nightmare. I honestly can not express how horrible it was. My father did things to me that would make Stephen King shudder. Luckily, I managed to repress most of the truly terrible stuff, not that it made me feel any better. I have nightmares; I'm in pain all the time—even before the infarction—and I worry constantly, that somebody was going to do those thingsagain. I have panic attacks, although they are much less common now and flash backs. I started drinking my first week of college—okay technically "Dad" got me started on that one, by force-feeding me schnapps when I still had all my baby teeth—which didn't help, unless I got completely sloshed, which allowed me to turn off my brain to a certain degree, which allowed me to relax a little. Once again, I had a small amount of luck, this time because I have the amazing ability to learn/ do just about anything wile hung-over, without anybody ever noticing.

I survived. I managed. And I'd sleep only when I passed out from shear exhaustion. Amazingly, I thrived under these conditions, graduating at the top of my class, getting two medical degrees, and held down a job, and did all the grownup things I was supposed to do. Only, I couldn't deal with people, not that I cared. Still, the memories of what _he_ had done to me continued to haunt my mind. No amount of booze, or pills, or ECT would ever change what had happened. Nothing could fix me. Nothing could make me forget.

I was (and still am) able to recall, with prefect accuracy, the first time he broke one of my arms. I knocked over a glass of milk, and it spilled all over my plate. He grabbed my hand, yanking and twisting it, snapping the bone all the way around. I also remembered how—when I was five-years-old—he started coming into my bedroom at night, and touching me and putting his…that's not really relevant to what happened between me and Wilson. Well, maybe it is, but I don't wanna think about it unless I have to. He did all kinds of other things, stuff I will never forget, including, but not limited to breaking my jaw when I was 8, cracking a couple ribs, breaking my right arm three times, and my left one six times, and beating the crap out of me for ever minor misbehavior, even when I was in high school—I still don't know how he did that one. No mater how strong I was, he was stronger.

I always told anyone who'd listen that I distance myself from people because I am much, much, much smarter than them, but honestly I think I', just afraid of…being abused again. Yeah, I know, pathetic. Jimmy wasn't like everyone else. From the moment I bailed him out of prison that first night, I just knew things were going to be different with him. And they were. For a while. The two of us hit it off instantly. He _liked _me. He was good to me. He got me. That was the first—and only—time anyone ever had. Wilson was smart, and funny, and kind. Our first night together, we hung out in his hotel room, sitting up together, until 3:00 AM, just talking. There were sparks between us, but Wilson was getting divorced, and I didn't want to risk turning what could have been a great relationship into a terrifying, one night stand. Wilson liked _me_. I wasn't going to lose that. So, I waited, and waited, and waited, all the while, gaining new memories.

I would never forget the first time I made an offhand comment about my dad being a pedophile. Jimmy knew instantly, and managed to get me to tell him about it, and he did exactly the right thing, or rather exactly the right thing for me. He hugged me, patting my shoulders, and said something like, "if you want, I can shoot he bastard in the testicles." Anybody else would have said, _I'm so sorry, _or maybe, _it wasn't your fault, you know that right? _Those are two of the most useless statements on the planet.

A few weeks later, we were sitting on the sofa in my apartment, laughing, and watching some crappy movie on TV, my hand brushed up against his. Wilson didn't pull away. In fact, he grabbed on, and left it there for the rest of the night. This happened a little less than a year after we met. I also remember our first kiss.

It was a month after the hand holding incident. Jimmy leaned in close, pressing his mouth up against mine, and possessively forced my lips open, slipping his tongue in just far enough to feel good, but not so far as to choke me. Wilson was a good kisser, albeit a bit rough, and he didn't seem nearly as freaked out by the prospect of entering a sexual relationship with another man as I'd expected. We made out for an hour and a half, even though I was starting to get extremely uncomfortable, and frustrated. I rubbed up against him, grinding my crotch into his hips, but then he jumped up, ran to the door, and said, "I gotta go." Then, he did. Three days went by before I saw him again, but when he did show up, Jimmy apologized, and he told me he'd just gotten worried that I was just doing what I thought he wanted, even though I might not have been into it.

"It's okay," I'd explained. "I've done this sort of thing before, with four other guys—separately of course—and I wanna do it again. I mean, I wanna do this with you," I explained, touching the side of his face. He smiled, taking me by the hand and sort of pushing me down to my knees. "Jimmy wait," I whispered.

"Shh," he responded, gently touching my hair, and my cheeks, and tracing my lips with his index fingers. "I know about your—history, and I will _never _do that to you. Whatever you want, we'll do it. And if you want me to stop, just say so, alright?" I nodded, licking my lips. "Say, stop," he insisted, touching my cheek. I nodded. "No, say it, out loud. I need to know that you _can _tell me no."

"Stop," I said, forcefully, pushing him, just a little, standing up, and taking a few steps away from him. He smiled, walked back up to me, pausing at my side. "Kiss me again." He did.

When we pulled apart he said, "You're gonna…you're gonna be okay, Greg. I promise. I will never, ever, ever hurt you."

"Everybody hurts everybody they care about, and sometimes the ones you don't care about, eventually." Jimmy sighed, absently playing with my hair. He walked me to the bedroom, and held me all night long. I thought aobut trying to get him to do more, but I started to realize that he was right. I wasn't ready, not really. Before then, every time I had been in a sexual relationship with another dude, I'd ended things with them shortly after we started sleeping together. Two days passed. He was so kind, so understanding, so sweet, and when I finally felt better, he asked if I was okay with "love making." I nodded, but once again he made me say so out loud. As annoying as it was, I liked that. I came as close to trusting him as anyone else I'd ever met. Wilson lifted me up onto my hands and knees, on the bed, pressed his body up against mine, his hands on my hands, his mouth on my neck and cheeks, and chin. I will never forget that night either. It wasn't my first time with another guy, and yet, it was the best sex I'd ever had. His cock fit perfectly inside of me, and he worked so hard to he made me feel good, and I came so hard I couldn't see straight for ten minutes. Afterwards, he tried to hold me again, and at first I fought him, but then he said, "come on, you liked this the other day, what's the difference now?"

"You mean besides the fact that I already got what I wanted from you," I taunted, heading to the kitchen for a beer.

"So you don't wanna be friends anymore," he asked, making this pouty face. I laughed. "Please, Greg," he whispered, and hugged me, close. "See, it feels good." I shrugged, looking down. "Tell me what to say, to make you realize that there's nothing wrong with this. You're allowed to relax once in a while." I'm still not sure how, but he managed to make me feel better, and it went on to happen all the time, not just with sex stuff. I was comfortable around him. He could make me laugh, and Jimmy was fun to be around, which made up for his being annoying and thinking he knew what was best.

I remember him bringing me to meet his parents, all proud and excited, like he was showing me off. It was kind of cute. Plus Wilson didn't expect me to be some weird, super serious boyfriend, partner, or whatever. We were just buddies who occasionally—often—slept together. He got married, twice, after the two of us got together, and I had Stacy, for a while. Then, she left and I was…a mess, but he came over, even though Bonnie was pissed, wrapped his arms around me, and laid down on the sofa next to me, for hours and hours, trying to comfort me, rocking with me, which was more annoying than helpful, and saying, "I love you." He and the 2nd Mrs. Wilson called it quits, shortly after that, and the two of us hung out at my place, "taking care of" each other for almost a year. He got remarried, they got divorced, and we fell into our routine again. That's when he moved in with me. Only this time Jimmy wanted to get more serious. I felt like a wuss, and an idiot, but this idea scared me a little, and not because I didn't like—possibly even love—the guy. He had there failed marriages, and almost twice as many serious ex-girlfriends. _It could be because he was sleeping with you most of that time_, I thought, momentarily, but still wondered about the relationships he'd had _before_ we met. Once again I was weak, and pathetic, and stupid. So I called one of his ex's. Okay, technically I called all three. The psycho chick was the only one who would take my phone calls and, I set up a meeting.

"Can I ask you something about Jimmy," I said, less than a minute after we got together the door Bonnie said yes. "What's he like in the—uh—romance department." Her eyes almost popped out of her head, and she jumped five feet up in the air.

"Why would you want to know that, she asked, gently taking my hand in hers, "Don't—listen, House, I know he's your best friend, but you need to be careful with James. He—he's a dangerous man. He was controlling, manipulative, possessive, and violent." I laughed.

"You are talking about the same Jimmy, right? James Evan Wilson, your ex-husband?" I couldn't stop laughing. She nodded, looking like she was about to cry. "Oh boy. What now?"

"It started with him wanting to know where I was going—always—how long I planned to be out, who was going with me, everything. Then, I could only do things if he said it was alright ahead of time. Soon he was getting angry over every little thing. And…he hit me. A lot. James always apologized afterwards, and he meant it, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. You have to stay away from him," Psycho Chick ordered.

"Jimmy's a pussycat. He's harmless, and even if he wasn't I could—I think I can handle _Wilson." _Unfortunately, she was right. James Wilson is way, way, way, colder and crueler than I ever could have imagined. Two days after the warning, he stormed into my office, and yelled at me. He had this conspiracy theory about me sleeping with the ex-Mrs. Wilson, and he started picking the toys and stuff up off of my desk, throwing them down onto the floor and against the wall, even breaking one of them.

"What are you doing with my ex-wife," he seethed, staring me down with a ferocious anger, the likes of with I hadn't seen since I was a kid. My father rarely reacted out of frustration. He was calm, calculating, even when he threw me across his lap and wailed on me with the buckle end of his belt. But Wilson seemed to have lost it, and in that moment, I was in fear for my life. I didn't know what to do or say, so I just stood there, staring at him. That's when Jimmy smacked me, right across the face. I was shocked, and horrified, still staring. I knew it would happen again, no matter what he said, no matter what I did. I had to make it stop. I had to leave, but Jimmy was—as Bonnie had said—my best friend, and the only person who had ever been there for me. Ever.

"I wanted to get you something special for your birthday," I explained, grateful that the event was two weeks away. "I tried calling Julie too, but she wouldn't talk to me. I figured someone who—I suck at this stuff. I thought she'd have some idea." My hands were shaking so badly, I dropped my cane, and while I was hurting pretty badly, I was afraid to reach into my pocket for my pills. "It was really stupid of me to go behind your back like that. I'm sorry. Just wanted to give you a nice surprise."

"Really?" Jimmy rubbed his mouth. I nodded, gulping, and for the first time since I was six-years-old, I prayed. _He has to buy it, 'cuz technically it's true. Only learned the other stuff because Bonnie has a big mouth. Please. Don't let him hit me again. _"I'm an idiot," he murmured, with a small smile. "Sorry about that." He touched my cheek softly. "I didn't hurtyou, did I?" Wilson picked up my cane, and placed it back in my palm, and then kissed my face where he'd hit me. I shook my head, took several deep breaths, and attempted to control my trembling body. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I knew an abuser when I saw one—and had successfully saved dozens of kids that nobody else would have been able to help because of it—and was silently screaming at myself for not recognizing James Wilson for what he really was. "Why don't you go lay down in my office, and I'll run downstairs and grab you something a little stronger for your leg, okay?" I was terrified of him. I wanted to say no, wanted to tell him to go away and never come back, wanted to run away, hide, swallow a fist full of Vicodin, quit my job, move away, and never, ever, ever have anything to do with him again. "Hey, I'm sorry. I lost control. I freaked out, but it won't happen again. I know, Greg. I know what you're thinking. I'm an abusive asshole and I'm gonna keep hitting you, until you end up dead." He tried to touch me again, but when I flinched, he put his hand down, without moving away.

"That's generally how it works," I whispered, too scared to step back, but also terrified of what would happen if I stayed there. He smiled, and tried to rub my back.

"Alright, you wanna know the truth?" He asked, and I nodded, in shock. "Let me—here, put your head on my shoulder." I sucked my lip into my mouth, and thought for a moment. "I'm not a monster. I have hit—people, before. I slapped Bonnie once. She only got our dog Hector because she threatened to tell the world I was a violent asshole. I had a problem in college. I knocked around this _one_ girl for two years, never really hitting her all that hard. Then, one day…I accidentally broke her arm. We went to the emergency room together, but she was so afraid of me. Every…every time I tried to touch her, she'd freak out, jump—literally—and I knew I'd screwed up, big time. So, I started seeing this therapist. We talked. My parents had these ridiculously high standards, and I started imposing them on myself too. I couldn't control anything in my world, and I dealt with it by stuffing all my feelings deep down inside of me, until they exploded out and I hit somebody. But the guy helped me learn how to control my anger, and I did real good, for years, and years. Bonnie and I were _this close_ to a divorce, but I—I still think it could of worked out if I hadn't lost my temper, and—I'm so sorry. I'm trying, but I'll work harder. I will never, hurt you again, but uh—you probably don't believe me. Can't say I blame you for that one."

"When you say stronger pain meds, what exactly do you—I mean, uh, sorry." _Why are you apologizing to him, _my mind was screaming._ RUN!_ "I know you hate it when I do that. Sorry. Won't ever do—I'm sorry." I must have still been shaking because he finally stepped away. His story sounded rational, plausible, even realistic, but I didn't believe it. Bonnie called him dangerous, and his explanation was so typical. Abusive people always say they have under control. _Hell, I say I have the Vicodin thing under control_, I thought. _No, PC is a head case. She's jealous and probably trying to ruin our good thing._ "I'm gonna get you some Percocet, okay?" I looked way, biting my lip a little. "You're in pain, and I have to—an apology from someone who just hit you doesn't mean much. I always got Karen—my college girlfriend—flowers, but you wouldn't really like that, right? I just figured that pain meds are just as easy to get for you, since I'm a doctor, and they would actually make you feel better."

"How about 7.5 Vicodins instead," I suggested. I would have loved something a lot stronger, but didn't wanna let Wilson off that easy. He nodded, and offered to take me home early, but I had a case, and my team came in with some sort of emergency. After he hit me that first time, things went back to how they had been for a while. Then, one day, I was doing the dishes and accidentally dropped one, breaking it. Jimmy hit me again, this time more carefully, on the shoulder. After that time in my office, he never touched me anywhere that wasn't covered by clothes, so no one would notice when I got bruises. He apologized, gave me some extra pills, said he loved me, and made up for it, eventually. I don't pretend to remember every time he hit me, or all the times he apologized, or even all of…the other stuff.

But there is one night that I do remember quite well. He got home late. I was already in bed. Jimmy climbed in beside me, and rubbed my shoulders. "I thought you were gonna sleep on the sofa," I managed to come up with. He had beaten the crap out of me a couple of days before. He said it was 'cuz he caught me riding the bike without a helmet, but I had a feeling that it was because he was losing a three-year-old to leukemia.

"I thought maybe I could change your mind," he explained pressing his body up against mine. Wilson already had an erection. I knew what was about to happen. I knew I was powerless to stop it. So, even though I didn't wanna, even though I could have tried to fight back, said no, begged him to stop, made him stop—or so I keep telling myself—I just lay still, and pretended that we were having fun. _ Another broken promise. Why are you still with him, you moron?_ When he rolled off of me, I pressed my face into my pillow, and cried myself to sleep. _Pathetic, _I thought, but at least he never found out.

During the whole Tritter fiasco, things got so bad that Cameron actually noticed. I was moving slow, in two or three times more pain than I should have been, even detoxing, and I didn't do so good when she tried to pat me on the hand to show support. She tried to be sweet and offer some help, but I made a really crude sex joke, and she watched me for a minute, before leaving. Eventually Tritter left me alone, Wilson forgave me, and I told him that it was okay. _I probably would have been pissed at you if you were stupid enough to do what I did,_ I told him. "Greg, come here," he ordered, massaging my shoulders, and hugging me close. "I think you wanted to see what I'd let you get away with before I gave up on you, right?" I nodded, even though it wasn't even close to the truth. "Are we okay? I messed up pretty bad too. If I was you, I'd never forgive me."

"It's fine," I'd lied. "Let's just not talk about it anymore, okay?" We moved on. We got over it. Things were good again. I was his one and only, and he was my…I dunno, something.

Then, a couple months ago, he started dating Cutthroat Bitch. He was happy, and calm, that was par for a new relationship with him. I pretty much—I would have been fine to let it go, a few nights ago. She called me.

"House, we need to talk," Amber explained, almost sweetly. Still, I was scared, and I don't really know why. I let out a soft, grunt, and she probably took it as an acknowledgment of her presence or whatever. "It's about James. He screamed at me last night. I don't know. I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing." I bit my lip, literally._ I can't tell her. She'll go straight to Wilson, and ask if I was lying to break them up. Stupid bitch! _"Should I be worried?"

"About Jimmy," I chuckled, trying to pretend like I had no idea what she meant. Of course CTB wouldn't let it go. I hung up. She tried calling back five times before giving up for the night. The next day, she tried again. The day after that, I finally picked up. "What the Hell do you want fro me," I probably shouted.

"I'm afraid of him, and I don't know why. Tell me I'm being irrational. Tell me there's nothing to worry about," she begged. I didn't say a word. "I know about the two of you, I know you have sex, and I don't care. Or I won't, as long as you tell me the truth." I ran a hand through my hair and said something like, 'don't be stupid, James Wilson is a teddy bear,' and convinced myself that she wouldn't do anything. That was Wednesday. Jimmy came over to my apartment that night, but we didn't go out. As terrified as I had been, he was so relaxed, and "nice" that I calmed down too, and had a good time, or as a good a time as I'm capable of.

XX

I honestly don't remember what I was doing last night, why I was going out, why I was with Amber, or any of the things Jimmy wants to know. He was so supportive when I came in after getting conked on the head. He sat with me, in my hospital bed, kissed my hair, promised that everything would be alright, gave me extra strong painkillers, listened to my crazy theory about a sick person on the bus, helped me figure it out. He was great, until we found CTB. I tried to remember what I had done, I've been trying so hard, but I can't. After we talked to the bartender, he and I went back to my office, where he locked the door and de the blinds.

"What were you doing with my girlfriend," he asked through clenched teeth. Every bit of concern, every speck of sympathy and love disappeared from Wilson's voice. He wasn't furious, hadn't quite reached the screaming and throwing things stage. I don't know what I did, what to tell him. I never would have slept with Cutthroat Bitch, regardless of their relationship. And I wouldn't of warned her. I'd decided to be good so he'd yell, and scream and hit _her_, and then I'd be safe. If I wasn't trying to fuck the woman, and I wasn't outing James, why were we together?

"I don't know," I croaked, nervously, looking towards the door, trying to calculate my odds. Less than a 10% possibility of pushing past him, less than 5% of getting the door open on my own. 3% chance of getting outside, and maybe 1% that I'd find someone in the hall who'd protect me. Those odds were even worse than after my infarction. _No, _I thought, _best to stay here, take it like a man._ The funny thing is he didn't scream. He drew his and back to hit me, but there was a knock on the door—13, I have to remember to give her a raise…ha—and we were interrupted.

That was several hours ago. Now he's back, too depressed to be angry, and he wants me to do the deep brain stimulation. He keeps begging me. He hasn't cried yet, but he's close. I haven't said yes or no. The thing is…I was all set to do it, without or without help, right up until he stormed in and started to tell me I had to. I knew the risks then, but I'm really thinking about them now. I could die, or end up a vegetable, and maybe still not find the answer. Technically, Jimmy's still asking. He knows that if he tells me to do it, even without threatening to leave, or hurt me, I'll do it because he _told _me. Wilson knows how much power he has over me, knows I haven't go anybody else, knows that I'd do anything to hold onto him, even if he does hit me and sort of—I don't really know what to call the other thing. It's not rape, but it's not sex either. But…still, I need him. He's way better to me than anybody else has ever been, which if you think about it, is really, really messed up.

"You want me to risk my life…for Amber," I ask, looking up at him all pathetic, and sad, and scared, and helpless, as if any of those things will help, as if he actually gives a crap about me. He doesn't even have to think about it.

"Yeah," he says, barely touching his mouth at all. _Please, _I begged, with my eyes—I know not to say it—_please don't do this to me. _"Do it." I nod, and Wilson helps me stand, drags me upstairs, to a room where he hooks me up to the machine, takes my hand in his and…

XX

The next thing I know, I'm somewhere else, my head hurts way worse than before. Cuddy's right there, touching my hand, and my hair, telling me what happened. She says I'm going to be all right, but I don't care. I open my mouth to ask about Wilson, but she presses her finger over my lips.

"Don't talk. Blink if you understand me." I do what she says. Cuddy tells me what happened, that I solved the case, but it didn't matter, and she tries to make me feel better, but all I can think about is Wilson. "I'm going to say here with you, okay?" I sort of shrug. She sighs, smiled, and kisses me on the forehead. "I have to ask you something. You've got bruises everywhere, is there—do you wanna tell me something?" I blink no, max out my morphine pump, curl up on my side, and pretend to be asleep so she'll go away. Only, Lisa doesn't leave. And I'm sort of glad.

Sometime later, Jimmy shows up. He stands in the doorway, watching for a second. Then, he looks at me like this is all _my_ fault, like he hates me. I knew it would happen, but…still. I wanna say, _after everything you've done to me, is it really fair to get mad over one night of drinking that ended in horrendous tragedy? _I actually want him to hit me, or fuck me, or scream, or something, just to show that he isn't going to disappear forever. I want to say I'm sorry, and beg him to stay, but he just turns and walks away before I get the chance.

As I lie still, my heart feels like it's breaking in half from the pain, as I long for a guy who beats the crap out of me, and I wonder how I'm ever going to survive without him. _God you're pathetic, _my mind teases. _Why not just drink from the fountain of youth, turn into a permanent five-year-old, and move in with Daddy again. _

"It should have been me," I whisper in the darkness, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I struggle to hold myself together. I can hear Wilson's voice in the back of my mind, taunting me.

"Yeah,"he says, calm but pissed. "It should of."_ Maybe it still can_ _be_, I think. _That would show him!_ Of course I haven't got the courage to actually kill myself, but maybe in a couple of weeks Jimmy will cool down, and I'll be able to get him to come back. If I'm lucky. _And maybe Tinkerbell can sprinkle fairy dust on your leg so that it won't hurt anymore, and Wilson won't hit you ever again. _

"Shut up," I whisper in the darkness, looking back over at Cuddy to make sure she's still asleep. Then, I let myself cry or real, not just the silent, baby tears, but real, noisy crying, that doesn't do anything except make my head and heart hurt worse. _Oh well, at least the worst is over, _I tell myself, and wonder how many times I've had that thought.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I'm probably going to do just one more chapter.

"They say that loyalty is just for those who've earned it;  
is that why they stole the sofa from your parking space and burned it?  
You were hoping you could leave here with some teeth still in your head,  
but your friends on curtain row would rather see you dead," The Pretenders

As angry as I was at Jimmy for not calling me all summer, for completely ignoring me, and for…the other stuff, I was still excited to hear that he was coming back, finally. For two weeks before his return all I could think was: _Jimmy's coming back; Jimmy's coming back; Jimmy's coming back! _

I lay awake all night the day he was set to arrive, jumped up early, considered shaving, but didn't have a razor, and then showered and washed my hair. I tried to remember what Wilson liked to see me wear, but couldn't think of anything. Pretty much whenever he came over, we just messed around, and I didn't wear anything, not for long anyway. I put on my nicest pair of jeans, an ironed shirt, popped my morning pill, grabbed a Pop-Tart, and headed out the door. When I got to the hospital, early, he wasn't there yet. So I pretended to be interested in whatever stupid case my team and I were supposed to be working on, and sent my team off to go run tests, or something.

And then, I sat and I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, he showed up and I was so excited, I couldn't stop myself from racing over and knocking on the door. Naturally, nothing went like I planned. I figure—after three months—he might be looking forward to seeing me. I didn't expect the guy to be completely (or even partially) over Amber's death, but I'd hoped that he would of at least forgiven me, at least partially. Only one problem, he hadn't. Right off the bat, Wilson told me he wasn't planning on staying very long. "I'm thinking of taking some more time off," he told me.

"Wow, you're really milking this whole bereavement thing," I mocked, watching as his face lit up with anger. He walked away from his desk, and took three gigantic steps closer towards me, right hand balled up in a fist._ Shit! _"I mean good for you. Take all the time you need." Jimmy looked away sadly, rubbed his mouth, and uncurled his hand. I felt myself relaxing, my heart slowed, breathing normalized, and the sweating stopped. "If you want me to go away, I will." He started to approach me again, and I, unfortunately, reacted the same way I had when he was about to attack.

"What the hell is the matter with you," Wilson asked, reaching out to stroke my cheek, almost gently, lovingly, sort of. "You're acting like you're afraid of me." I shrugged, and—as he wrapped his arms around me—leaned into his hug. "Do you want me to go?" I shook my head. "What about me, don't you even care if I stay?"

"I think I just said that," I offered up, trying to control my voice, keep it from being too sarcastic. I didn't want to start off on the wrong foot, didn't want him to get angry, didn't wanna get hurt. "I mean, of course I do, Jimmy. I've missed you. I wanted to call a hundred times, but was a little afraid. I mean, uh—I figured you wanted to spend some time apart or else you would have called me." I felt Wilson's hands slip down from my shoulders to my waist. I heard a soft squeaking sound escape from my throat, but he either didn't hear it, or didn't care. I hated my patheticness. I'd been waiting for this all summer and yet, now that he was there, I found myself fighting him. "Why do you, I mean—why don't you wanna be around me anymore," I asked, like an idiot, like a chick. "Don't you like me?" I knew how incredibly stupid that sounded, but I couldn't help myself.

"Damnit, Greg, don't complicate this by getting all weird and clingy," he commanded. I felt myself nodding. "I don't want to be with you because—no, it's not even that. I don't hate you, House. I wanna stay with you, but I _can't _be here anymore. It's just too hard. I need a change of scenery." _Don't say the thing that just popped into your head_._ Don't say the thing that just popped into your head. Don't say it; don't say it, don't say it, _my brain screamed at me, but as usual, I didn't listen.

"Get a plant," I spat, hatefully. James just stared at me for what seemed like a long time. I was expecting him to smack or hit me, or worse, but he didn't Wilson made the same face I'd seen myself make, in the mirror and photographs from my childhood, big eyes, looking downward, sad mouth. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. I didn't mean it! Please just don't—okay, so here's the thing. You might not be the most perfect friend, or whatever, but you're the only person in the whole world who has ever been nice to me, or cared about me, and if you're just gonna leave, like Stacy, or—oh screw it. Forget I said anything," I stammered, standing up, and limping towards the door. I put my hand on the knob and started to turn it, water building up behind my eyes. _What's the matter with you, _the logical part of my mind exclaimed. _You've been given a chance to get away from a guy who treats you like crap. Take it! _But then there was the other part of me, the part that knew I'd never make it without him, the part of me that knew I was so small and weak, and needy. There was another part of me though, the part that understood how Jimmy was the only man who had ever loved me, who'd ever been halfway decent to me, who'd done anything good for me. I also needed him to write my prescriptions; nobody else would ever give me enough, assuming anyone else would ever give me any. I was torn between making the right choice and running away from danger and making the choice that would allow me to be as close to happy and pain free as I was going to get.

"House wait," Wilson called as I was opening the door and about to step out into the hallway. I was a little afraid, and extremely tired. All I really wanted to do was go back to my office, turn off the lights, and go to sleep, if that was possible. I probably would have been a lot better off if I had just done that, instead of listening to him, going back to him, but you know hindsight and all.

"My leg hurts. If you're gonna yell at me, can you do it from here? Otherwise, I gotta walk all the way back to your desk, listen to you yell at me, and then you'll kick me outta here, and I'll have to walk all the way back to the door, and that's more steps than I can manage right now," I explained, hoping he would buy it. It wasn't a lie. Three months apart had been an absolute nightmare. I was in more pain than usual, just the physical stuff mind you, unable to read or write or watch more than an hour or two of television without getting a migraine. I felt guilty. For months I thought I was a murderer, and nothing Cuddy, Cameron, Kutner, Chase, or Thirteen said (Foremen didn't even try) could make me believe otherwise. I thought Wilson felt the same way. Why else would he stay away when _I _needed him so badly?

I lost fifteen pounds because—I quickly discovered—I don't really eat all that much unless I'm picking off of Jimmy's plate. I was scared of the idea of him hating me, scared I'd never see him again, and even more terrified that he would come back, but not because he'd forgiven me. I lay awake half the summer too afraid to close my eyes, positive he was going to sneak in and kill me, in my sleep. I wanted him back and I wanted to be free. I wanted him to hold me and love me and tell me how much he cared, but I also wanted him to never ever come back. I felt safe, and I felt terrified. I was sad and excited, lonely but never alone. The whole time Jimmy was avoiding me like the plague, Cuddy, Cameron, Chase—although I knew he was being forced to go by his girlfriend—and Kutner all spent hours at my place, babysitting me. At first they claimed it was to keep an eye on me because of the concussion, because I had chased away five nurses in four days.

After a month an a half, however, my head had officially healed, and while there was still pain from time to time, they nanny visits didn't stop. I eventually got the answer out of Lawrence, they were all worried of me, or at least Cuddy and Cameron had convinced the boys that I needed someone to keep an eye on me. They were worried about the bruises Cuddy had discovered, and as such, wanted to make sure whatever had happened didn't start again. I'm sure everyone in the hospital knew that Wilson and I had been sleeping together (and that he hit me) by mid July, but what could I do? Luckily, by now, the whispers in the hallway had quieted down, and I was standing there watching him, and thinking about the how much these past few weeks had upset and hurt me, and feeling terrified by what would come next.

So, when Jimmy got up from his desk, walked to my side, wrapped his arms around my body, and pulled me into a close and tight hug, I really didn't' know what to do. "Wilson," I whispered nervously, as he swept me back inside, and pulled the door shut locking it. "I get it; you hate me, and don't want to see me anymore. If you wanna leave, that's fine; go, whatever, I don't care, but don't this. I can't do this and then lose you." I was half serious, half hoping he'd realize how much I still needed him, and get turned on by that, which would make him agree to stay with me forever.

"Don't lie to me, House; I can always tell when're lying," he said, the way my father used to. Only, neither one of them was right. I was an expert at deception, but most of the time, with Jimmy, I wanted to get caught—subconsciously—because as much as the punishment hurt, the make up sex was always amazing. "You don't want me to leave do you?" I shook my head. "I want you to hear you say it, out loud."

"You just told me not to be clingy. I'm trying my best, but I'm a little confused. Actually, I'm a lot confused. I have no idea what you want from me! I wanna be good, I do, but," I blathered like an idiot. I had never been able to tell my father that I didn't know what he wanted from me. I was terrified of that man. But Jimmy could be kind, and understanding, and sensitive. I figured honesty was my best policy, for the time being. He smiled, weakly, one small tear in each eye. "I'm sorry, I know you hate and don't wanna be with me anymore; this must be really hard for you."

"Shut up," he commanded. I did, once again close to tears. He wiped my eyes with his shirt sleeve. I let myself smile just a little. "I just told you that I don't _want _to leave; I have to. Can you understand that?" _Nope. _"Okay, there's no point explaining it; you won't listen. Tell me what _you _want. Don't whine, don't be clingy, don't try and pull that whole "I'm so pathetic and can't possibly be myself for more than two seconds" crap. I need to make a decision, and to do that I have to know what you really think." I stared at him, stupefied, rubbing, squeezing, and pulling on my own face, almost hard enough to yank my chin off. "Do you even care? Do you have any feelings at all?"

"I like you, okay? I like you, a lot, and I don't want you to leave. I'm also scared that if I ask you to stay and you don't—anyway, I _am _pathetic, and needy, and clingy, and I don't really know what's going to happen to me if I don't have someone around who doesn't completely hate me. I—sorry. I know you were probably hoping for some big, emotional breakthrough, but I'm just not ready. You know what happened to me when I was a kid. I was emotionally numb, completely shut down before I was six. I had to; it was the only way to survive. I didn't communicate with people, I didn't do anything with other kids, or their parents, or my family. I couldn't even look other people in the eyes until I was 30. I'm not whining, or making excuses, but you wanted to have a relationship with me, and I'm doing the best I can, but I'm afraid I just don't have that much more to give to you." Wilson sort of chuckled, pulled back from the hug, clapped me on the back—hard, but not rough—and shook his head. I wasn't really sure what to think, or what he was thinking. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Couch," he said, nodding in its direction with his chin. I went. "Pants off." I slid them down, stepping out, and sat down, almost more afraid that he was going to make up with me than the leaving me thing. His desertion would come close to killing me, but I wouldn't die. The truth is, I don't think I can…die. I've come so close so many times and I'm never allowed to go. If I believed in it, I'd think I was in Hell. "You gonna make this difficult for me, Greg," Jimmy asked, sliding off his pants, folding them neatly, and throwing his tie over his left shoulder. I shook my head, and was in the process of taking the rest of my clothes off when, all of the sudden, there was a shooting pain in my head, an awful, excruciating ache. I grabbed my temples between my palms, wincing. "Come here," he whispered, almost kindly, and held me. "Does that still hurt?" I nodded. "But it's been months; your skull should be healed by now."

"It'll probably hurt the rest of my life. Not all the time, but I get these—they're like migraines—sometimes, maybe once a week, little more, little less. You know how a badly healed broken bone hurts in wet whether even decades after the cast comes off? Same thing. I might of been okay, if I hadn't shoved electrodes in my brain, and blown my miniscule skull fracture wide open." He didn't hit me, not really, just a little smack, across the cheek.

"Don't be a smart ass." It was nothing. I barely even felt it. He wasn't hurting me, he hadn't hurt me, and he wasn't about to hurt me. I was being stupid, talking like that, mocking him, referencing the death of his girlfriend like she meant nothing, like I was worthy enough to talk about her. "You sorry," he checked. I nodded, looking at his desk, my eyes focused on the little sandbox thing as his hands touched me all. He ran his fingers through my hair, kissed my mouth, and neck, shoulders, chest, nipples, stomach, arms, legs, and cock. Those same hands ever so carefully rolled me onto my stomach, propping me up just enough to keep my dick from getting squished. I was quiet the whole time he did his thing, and I think he made me cum, but the whole thing was so painful that it didn't make any difference. When he finished with me, James leaned in close and whispered, "I'm still leaving, House. I'll miss you, but—I'll get over that. If I stay here, though," he started to say, shaking his head. "I can't. I'm sorry, but we can't keep doing this. You spread misery because it's all you know. You tried to do better, but you failed, you will always fail. And you're alright with that. I just can't be with someone who's happy to sit around being miserable all day, every day, popping enough pills to take down a bull elephant, and drinking enough to—I'm sorry. It's easier to tell you that you're a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be loved, because I convinced myself that if I made you hate me you wouldn't mind, but it's not doing that. I'm just making it hurt worse, and I shouldn't attack you for stuff you can't control," he explained. "I just can't enable it anymore, either."

"What if I agree to go to therapy? What if I'm good, and I stop taking the pills, and give up drinking? And I'll smile, and be good, and something—whatever you want! Please Jimmy," I begged. He shook his head, got dressed, told me to do the same, and left. I immediately went to talk to Cuddy, to see if she could Wilson from leaving. She told me I had to apologize. "He wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me," I explained. She stood up, crossed to my side, and stroked my cheek. I pulled away pathetically. "It wasn't my fault." She went on to tell me how I didn't kill CTB, but if I hadn't gotten drunk and called her, Amber never would have been on that bus and shed' be fine right now. I looked away. "I know," I admitted. She promised to take care of everything.

"House," she said, nervously as I was on my way out the door. I turned around and made the, just leave me the Hell alone face, but she ignored it. "You're bleeding." I turned my head back, and discovered a decent-sized red stain on the back of my jeans.

"Shit," I muttered, but quickly smiled, grateful to be clever. "It's not blood. Well it is but it's not what you think. Took a little too much Vicodin, got a little backed up…then, well if you want me to draw you a picture just follow me to the bathroom," I mocked. She rolled her eyes, but let it go. I went up to my office, changed clothes, sat down with my feet up, and tried to nap before General Hospital. Two hours later Cuddy called me and Jimmy back into her office for what she called couples therapy. Wilson gave me a dirty look. "I would never say anything like that to anybody, I swear!"

"Oh don't be pathetic; I didn't mean to insinuate that the two of you were actually sleeping together. But _you _are the only person in the world who can stand to be around House for more than five minutes, and he needs that."

"And you need him," Jimmy taunted. I smiled just a little, hands shoved deep into my pants pockets, staring at the floor, as I attempted to control my hand jitters. Cuddy wasn't going to let him leave, and had blocked all the TVs in the hospital from showing anything except the gardening channel until we started talking.

"You okay," I asked, uncomfortably. Wilson said he was. "Good." _Good. _And that was it, for a while. I went back into his office, near the end of the day, but this time I knocked, didn't let myself in. He opened the door. "If I said I felt guilty would it make any difference?" Jimmy said no. We argued some more. I told him I was sorry, which was true. He practically screamed at me, and broke one of his toys throwing it at my head. Luckily I ducked just in time. There was a small brown notebook on his desk, something I'd never seen before. "I didn't want—I'll do anything for you," I sobbed. "Just don't leave me." He kept packing, completely ignoring my cries. "I don't—what if I? I can't do this without because I—despite what you may think—actually do feel responsible. I don't want to be miserable anymore. I've been trying really hard this summer, but I can't make it, not without you."

"Oh poor, widdle baby," he mocked, slamming the box down on his desk. I watched him reach over and pull something out of a drawer. "If you want to get better, that's your own business, but don't drag me into it. I'm done. I'm allowed to walk away from you, House." I stared at my feet, and bit my lip to keep from calling him an idiot, or worse. I wanted to cry, but knew he'd just laugh at me. So, I held that back too.

"I'm sorry I murdered your girlfriend," I whispered, my eyes burning. "But if you go, I'm gonna—I'm. I—this is my fault, I'll admit that. You can be mad at me, you can ignore me, and stop being nice to me, and punish me however you want, but please. Please don't leave, Wilson. I—we hafta—I'm not trying to be a crybaby. I wanna get better. I wanna be happy and normal, and I want us to get along really, really well, and I want us to be everything we could have been before." I was in no way a typical abuse victim. Escaping from Jimmy wouldn't make my life better at all. Sure, I'd be physically safe, but in my entire life, no one had ever been nice to me, cared for me, loved me. Wilson did that. Without him, I'd…actually, I didn't know what I'd do, but it wouldn't be good.

"You don't believe you actually—you only said that so I'd feel bad for you and pretend like everything is perfect and wonderful and happy and that you're not the most pathetic, needy person on the planet," he shouted. I could just imagine my team in the next room, their ears pressed up against the wall, listening to everything we said.

"I admit to that, I agree with you, and I don't wanna be that person anymore," I sobbed, dropping to my knees on the floor, looking up at him helplessly. "I'm sorry; I'll be good. Whatever you want or need me to say, _that._" Wilson was semi-hard; I could see it. I gulped, felt the tears streaming down my face and didn't even try to stop them.

"You gonna be good," he asked, lifting my face up, so I was staring him in the eyes. I nodded. "I'm not promising anything," he explained, unzipping his pants. "But you're right; we do need to try something."

"Thanks Jimmy," I said, before doing exactly what he told me, without moving from the uncomfortable position on the floor, but I did manage to choke back the tears. "You're okay," he whispered, stroking his cock into full hardness with one hand, and steadying my head with the other. Once again, I didn't really want to do this, but I was so desperate to keep him around that I was willing to let him have sex with me twenty times a day, every day for the next million years, even if he didn't even try and get me off.. Afterwards, he helped me to the couch, and put a pillow under my leg, took the pill bottle out of my pocket, handed me two, and put the rest in a locked drawer in his desk. "Comfy?" I nodded. "Good." I watched as he crossed to the desk, picked up the journal, and reading from it. "House called me today, and invited me out for a drink. At first I thought he was either trying to hit on me, or break James and me up, but that wasn't it," Jimmy told me. "You think I'm dangerous and told Amber to stay away from me," he continued. "You're not even gonna try and deny it, are you?" I shrugged. "Damnit, House!"

"How long have you known," I asked, terrified, but managing to keep myself together just for a minute or two. He smiled, and shrugged. "I was scared that I was losing you. I told her that so she'd leave and we could be together."

"She hid this under a loose floorboard, under the bed," Wilson explained. "It took me forever to get to that entry, but I read it this afternoon, after our 'couples consoling' and I—" he broke off mid-sentence, and turned around, wiping the tears from his face. I felt myself shivering, and couldn't control it. "You took her away from me! Now I'm gonna take everything away from you." I nodded, and didn't move. I didn't run for it. He didn't actually seem all that mad. He was hurt, and lost and confused, but calm. I expected him to beat the crap out of me, but he didn't lay a finger on my body, not in the way I thought he would. Jimmy reached into his pocket, and pulled out an item from his desk. It was a decorative letter-opener, very pretty, wooden handle, colorful carvings, etc. I had seen the thing hundreds of times but never paid it much attention. "We're not friends anymore, Greg; maybe we never were." I nodded, glad that everything was finally over. No more pain, no more nightmares, no more pain—the emotional kind—and no more getting hit, yelled at, or worse. I was actually free this time, and I didn't have to try and live without Wilson.

"Just make it fast okay," I whimpered, helplessly, lying completely still for him, being a good boy. He nodded. There were tears in his eyes. Then the guy drew his arm back, the knife raised high in the air, and brought it down into my chest, screaming and sobbing so loud that (I'm told) half the building heard him. The knife didn't hurt going in; I was so scared and sad and whatever that I felt completely numb, even as he ripped it back out, and the blood, my blood, went everywhere. He dropped me onto the floor, and stood over my bleeding, dying (I hoped) body. I saw the door opening, light streaking across the room, and a pair of sneakers. _What's he doing here, _I thought.

"Get the fuck away from him," Kutner shouted, and raced to my side, applying pressure against my wound. He started to scream for help, and the next thing I knew, I was being lifted up onto a gurney, and being wheeled downstairs by my team, after being violently attacked, for the second time in three years. I watched Jimmy fall to the ground in the corner, knees hugged to his chest, hands covered in red slime. "You're gonna be okay, House," Lawrence promised. "Everything is going to be okay." I tried to reach backwards, but another pair of hands reached out and held me still.

"Jimmy," I whispered, weakly, watching as the hallway started to spin around and around. Someone—I'm not sure who—said something like, _don't worry he can't hurt you anymore. _ "No, I want Jimmy. I need Jimmy here with me," I said. Before I passed out, I saw Cameron's face over mine. She smiled gently, as people cut away my clothes, stuck an IV in my arm, pumped me full of meds, and tried to figure out if I needed surgery/ had been critically injured. Even through all the chaos of the ER, she still had time to lean down and press her lips against my forehead. Then, I heard Jimmy's voice in my head mocking me, _we're not friends anymore; maybe we never were_. Cameron was promising that she wouldn't let me die. I started to say, no, please let me go, but blacked out before I could say anything except for the first word. "No," I said, and the world went dark all around me.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: another cliffhanger, sort of. Also I have no intentions of making this a House/Kutner slash piece (esp. not in this chapter) , just a strong friendship sort of thing.

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital room, but it didn't look like the way it should have. For one thing, there was no medical equipment anywhere, and for another, absolutely everything was bright white, like in the hallucination I had after my seizure. I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

"I don't care if I'm dead, or this is another dream or whatever but when I open my eyes, you'd better be wearing a bikini, or something equally appealing," I demanded. Someone touched my shoulder and I jumped fifty feet in the air.

"Relax, it's just me. James isn't here; no one can hurt you," Amber explained. "You're safe as long as you're here with me."

"But I have to leave eventually," I muttered into my chest. I felt her head against my shoulder, as she nodded. "Do I have to look? It doesn't hurt here, and when I had to leve last time…"

"The night of the accident, I was going to leave him and I wanted to pick you up, because I thought I could make you—agree to go too. And he tried to kill you because of it, twice now." I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears, and start singing at the top of my lungs, but she held my hands down. "He raped me, at least… he wanted to make love, right before his shift, but I wasn't feeling well, and I tried to tell him—God, I can't believe I'm telling you this." I shivered. "You're in surgery right now. There's a hole in your heart; he put a hole in your heart! You have to listen to me."

"Go away," I whimpered. Finally, I opened my eyes. Amber was dressed all in white, but she didn't have a halo or wings or any of that crap. She smiled very gently, and touched the side of my face. "Or at least stop being nice; _she _was never nice to me. She _hated _me."

"No, not after that night," whoever told me. "I spent the hours trying to convince myself that I'd given him some signal, made him think that I was okay with it, but then you called." She stopped herself, bit down on her lip, and wiped her eyes. "I could hear in your voice everything I was feeling. I decided to leave James, and I needed to get you to do the same. Now you need to understand, I didn't love you, I didn't want to be your friend, we weren't going to bond over our shared tragedy, but I get you. You're needy, and fragile, and shut off, and cold and brilliant, and an abusive bastard's worst nightmare. Wilson's exes were easy to control. He'd get them under his thumb, and control them for a while, but then he got bored. With me and with you, that was never going to happen. He will kill you if you don't make this stop; just like he would have killed me," she explained, climbing into the bed and wrapping her arms around my body.

"So this is an intervention? You're here to rescue me from myself. Wilson is going to prison. I don't need to be saved. Even if he doesn't go to jail, I'm not going back to a guy who would do this to me, again."

"You're just mad because he screwed it up. If he had stabbed you at home and left you to bleed out, alone and terrified, you'd understand. But to bring you so close to death, and snatch that freedom—that painless escape—from you one more time….that's what you can't handle isn't it," she asked, but she wasn't making fun of me. _If you know me so well, then tell me what I want. _"I don't know. Because you don't know." I let out one single, gut wrenching sob, before regaining control.

"You didn't actually expect me to believe that did you? Not the part about him hurting her, 'cuz I'm sure he did, but you aren't Wilson's dead girlfriend. You're just a segment of my brain that thinks hearing her sob story is gonna be comforting or whatever."

"If that's what you need to believe, then it's okay," she whispered, pressing her lips against my temple. "And if hearing what happened to me doesn't help, then let's go over all the terrible things James has done to you." I shook my head. "Remembering them won't convince you to leave, will it?" She sighed. "Neither will a gentle reminder that he's going to kill you, because you don't care if you die. Death has to be easier than what your're going through right?" I sighed, but didn't (couldn't) say no. "So, how do I convince the great Gregory House he deserves to be saved?" I rolled my eyes. "Well logic didn't work. Now I'm appealing to your vanity."

"_I'm _appealing to _my _vanity," I reminded myself. The Amber figure shrugged her shoulders. _Same difference. _"Can I go now?" Of course I didn't, leave that is. I sort of liked it there. My leg didn't hurt. My heart didn't hurt. I wasn't scared, not really, and I didn't have to deal with what would happen when I came back.

She kissed my hair, inhaling deeply, and said, "You always smelled good. It's weird. Despite the fact that you are a disgusting pig who basically lives in his own filth, you smell nice." I sort of laughed. "If you're ready to leave, they wanna bring you out now. I shook my head, clinging to her.

"How'd the surgery go? I lose any organs? If you're really dead, and can actually see what's happening then you know, right?" She smiled, nodded, and whispered, _it's okay, _in my ear. "Stop, you're not helping!"

"Two pints of blood, but no permanent organ damage. You'll be back to your old self in time for bathing suit season." _With a brand new scar to show off, _I thought. "I thought you'd appreciate my dark humor. Next time I'll just let Cameron take care of this part. God knows she's better at it than me. Hell Foreman's probably better than me, but he just doesn't like you that much."

"I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better," I chuckled. _That doesn't sound like me, _she said, only she didn't actually say it. I just sort of knew she was thinking it, somehow. "When we were on the bus you said I deserved to have Jimmy hate me."

"I thought that James hating you would save your life, but obviously things didn't work out like I'd planed. You are so desperate for affection that you begged Wilson to take you back, laid still while he raped you in a hospital full of people who would have come running if you'd screamed. I'm not saying it was your fault, but you didn't fight him for a reason. You thought you needed to be punished. You still think that, which is why you told him to kill you." I looked away. "It's time to go now, Greg."

"Tell me something. Something good, I don't care if I believe it. Just don't wanna go back and be like I was before I met him." She nodded, kissed my hair one last time, which was really weird because all of this was the last sort of thing I expected. Maybe my brain thought I needed a break, maybe it was real, maybe I was just totally loopy from the combination of getting stabbed, and the pounds of drugs pulsing through my body. Don't think I'll ever know for sure.

"House," Chase's annoying accent broke through my dream, and drew me back into the 'real world.' "Follow the light with your eyes," he ordered, and I obeyed. He asked if I knew what had happened to me.

"Wilson raped and then stabbed me. I'm sure it's all over the hospital by now. How'd the surgery go?" He explained how my surgery went. "And I'm on what feels like Morphine." Chase nodded, and I caught the curious glint in his eyes. "You wanna know why I stayed with him? With all my intelligence and mad diagnostic skills, didn't I know I was being abused? How could I not?" He looked more than a little uncomfortable.

"It's alright," he explained, his eyes shifting towards the wall. _Great bedside manner. How the Hell do patients like this guy? _"You don't have to tell me about that." He seemed antsy to get out, which is the only reason I did what I did next.

"Where's Jimmy," I asked, half nervous, half desperate. He shrugged, looking more terrified than I did. "I want to see Jimmy, I want—I know he did this to me, but I need to see him, and I want him to—I wanna know that he's not leaving because of me." Chase sighed, trying to hide the fact that his eyeballs were rolling back in his head.

"House, the police came and took Wilson away. He's in prison. He's not—you don't have to be afraid of him anymore," Chase tried to explain, which got a small chuckle out of me. His eyes did that puppy dog thing, and he stuck out his lower lip. "What I mean is—I'm not used to. What do you—I uh," he stammered.

"Well that is much better than Morphine and no withdrawal either. Uh-oh, someone's annoyed. That was clearly annoyed face," I mocked, trying to copy his little expression. "So am I back on babysitter duty? Make sure he doesn't try and finish the job? Attempted murder or not, he will get out on bail."

"I'm not the best person to ask about legal questions. I don't fully comprehend the American justice system," he explained. I rolled my eyes. "I—sorry, I should probably get you someone to talk to who knows more about this."

"I don't care about that stuff. Just tell me how long I hafta deal with a nanny following me around wiping my ass and kissing my boo-boos. Although at this point, the two are actually more connected than I'd like to admit." He smiled a tiny, little smile. "Thanks for not treating me like a leper."

"Leprosy isn't always contagious, and you're on antibiotics, so even if you had the kind I could catch …" I cut him off before he could get one more stupid syllable out.

"I know _that_ you moron. How the Hell did someone like you ever pass the medical boards?"

"They must be easier in Australia," he retorted. I smiled again. "You're on a morphine pump, obviously. It's by your left hand. Did—I shouldn't ask this, but. Sorry. Nevermind." I sighed, but knew I would have to answer these questions eventually, and Chase was a good start, easy to talk to. I told him it was alright. "When did this start?"

"We've been—together, so to speak, almost the whole time we've known each other, but he didn't hurt me for a long time. During his last divorce, I went to see one of his ex's. She told me to stay away from him, then Jimmy found out, and smacked me, but he—he had this great explanation for what she'd said. He swore it wouldn't happen again, and I didn't believe him, but…he was so apologetic, so wonderful, and sweet, and he kept trying to…I was abused as a kid. I can't believe I just said that. How much morphine am I on? Nevermind. I told him about my childhood, and he," I cut myself off. "Except for the hitting, Jimmy did everything right. And I mean everything."

"What about the—" he stopped himself again. _Shit. _I closed my eyes, pretending to have fallen asleep. _He knows bout that! _ He knew I was faking, of course, but Chase was smart enough to leave me alone. I stayed like that until he left, and then heard the clickety clack of someone's fancy shoes against the tile. I guessed Thirteen.

"Go away, or I'm going to fire you," I insisted, but the obnoxious sound didn't return, signaling that she wasn't leaving. Idiot was probably smiling. "You got some sob story with the ending cleverly twisted to make me think exactly what I'm supposed to; help me agree to press charges against Wilson?" She sighed, tiredly; probably putting her hands on her hips. "Leave, now." She actually did but then, a gentle scent combined with heavy footsteps flooded my room. "You gonna threaten to fire me, or cut off my Vicodin? Maybe you'll just post Jimmy's bail for him and give the guy a ride back to the hospital." Cuddy did her little pissed off grunt, but didn't leave. Instead I felt her hand reach out and stroke the side of my face. "Don't do that," I said in a pathetic voice. She pulled away. "I can't do this anymore. Not here," I whispered, "not unless you fire everybody else in the building." I opened my eyes to see her making the worried mommy face. "Maybe I can still do diagnostics, from home—over a web cam or something. Just can't been in the same room as you again." She reached over and touched my face again. "How long do I hafta be on nanny watch?"

"Someone's going to be staying here with you until Wilson's trial is over, unless he does us all the favor of pleading guilty," she said sternly. I started to mock her for thinking _she_ could protect me from Wilson. I went on too long, but didn't care

"Shut up, House." Only she wasn't the one who said it. Cameron was. "Chase said you were conscious and bothering everybody," she explained. I rolled my eyes. She reached over and apparently it was her turn to touch me. "Maybe we need to have two sitters watching you at once."

"I can handle you two, and still have enough love for Thirteen," I teased, but neither Lisa nor Allison was impressed. "At once." They glared hatefully. "You girls do realize that you're just encouraging me, right?" Cameron smiled, and then pulled the top of my gown lower, without warning. "What the Hell are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," she said sweetly, carefully peeling back the tape and bandage to look at my stitches, and make sure I didn't have an infection or anything like that. "Looks good," she explained, and when I didn't make a sarcastic comment, she added something about my 'nice abs' even more moronically. "It's okay, House. You're safe now. But your heart is racing. You need to calm down. How can I help you do that?" She leaned in really close, her breast hanging over my face. In any other state I'd feel fantastic, or at least act like I did.

"You can't," I muttered, without adding, _not unless you can bring Jimmy here; make him stop hurting me, but keep loving me. _"I know you were hoping for something snarky, but I'm sort of tired right now. Even the best of us have our off days. Come back tomorrow with extra large condoms, lube, and strawberries, but don't tell Chase." That got me the look I was hoping for. "Sorry," I managed to force myself to say. "Guess I'm still not feeling—whatever." She just gave me another one of those sweet, and gentle, 'everything you do is absolutely perfect' smiles. I hate how nice she is. Cruel, I know how to deal with, manipulative I can handle, but nice…I just don't know what to do with that! Cameron's the worst, though; she oozes niceness. Cuddy is just less nice, and doesn't put up with as much of my shit. Chase doesn't care all that much, Foreman doesn't care at all, not about me anyway, and Kutner is too messed up to weird me out. Oddly enough I actually sort of like _that_ guy. Over the summer he found a couple of my old magic tricks, and made me perform them for him, over and over and over and over, like a six-year-old. It was annoying, but I also enjoyed having somebody so fascinated by me. Wilson didn't do that. He was barely interested in screwing me, above and beyond that…I don't like to think about. Thirteen is somewhere between Cameron and Chase. Taub wasn't even worth mentioning. I didn't see him outside of the hospital over the summer either, but he had an excuse, his wife. "If I promise to calm down will you two _leave_," I asked, without expecting much of any sort of response from them, but they agreed. Unfortunately, they also sent somebody in to take their place. "Oh goody I was worried I'd have to sit here and watch Captain Kangaroo all by myself," I mocked when he sat down in the chair by my bed. "You're not even gonna respond? Maybe you're a chicken." Kutner looked more confused than anyone else I'd seen all day. "Captain Kangaroo did a kiddy show back when I was little. The fact that I have to explain the reference sort of defeats the point."

"Sorry I don't get every single one of your arcane references but I have a normal brain. It's difficult enough to try and understand your metaphors."

"Not for you," I said, firmly. He sort of blushed. "You not only understand them, you've come up with your own. Good ones. Well, maybe not good, not in compression to mine, but…you're just a kid. You might get better when you grow up." Kutner just smiled, and gave me a little pat on the arm. "You here to teach me how to be a big boy and testify against the bad, bad man who hurt me," I asked, peppering in a bit of baby talk.

"I think you should just keep pretending like it never happened. I'm not being facetious. I meant it. You're not capable of handling something like this, and between what I saw and heard, and the fact that Wilson was practically screaming 'I killed Greg House' when they dragged him out of here, I don't see them needingyou to stand up in court, which is good, because—like I said—I don't think you can." I honestly couldn't tell if he believed all of this and was trying to protect me, or if he wanted to try and trick me into doing something I didn't want to do by making me feel small/ making me want to prove him wrong. Regardless of how much or how little he may have meant it, Lawrence was right. I wasn't capable of going to court and doing whatever, not against Wilson.

I was too scared of him, scared he'd hurt me, scared he'd be mad, scared he would stop loving me (I know how messed up that is but I'm not exactly healthy, so shut up), and scared to sit in the same room as him and admit that I'd just laid there while he had sex with me. The human body is a terrible-wonderful thing. It doesn't matter who's touching you and under what circumstances. If one person (or animal or inanimate object) touches or presses against, or slides inside of another in the right places, the person being touched will react regardless of how much or how little they may want it. But Wilson was different. Jimmy knew every inch of my body, inside and out. He could make me hard like nobody else, he could always get me off. Even if it did hurt sometimes_. _

It's hard enough to tell someone you've been raped, but when you have to tell the cops or your parents, or anybody that you had an orgasm because of how the rapist touched you…I personally think they don't believe it. The fact that Wilson could make me cum without even trying all that hard—no pun intended—made the whole thing all the more shameful and humiliating. And it made me hate him even more. Not to mention how it made me feel about myself.

"Why did you say that," I asked, slightly nervous, but mostly to stop the silence. Nearly five minutes had gone by since Kutner had stopped talking, and I don't particularly like uncomfortable silences, especially when they involve me or something that I've done or something that has been done to me.

"Because I've been there. When I was in college I met this guy, and he was really nice to me. Yeah, I know…you're gonna be making gay jokes the rest of my life. I don't care! He was so nice, until the day he wasn't. It took me almost two years to work up the courage to leave him, plus all the time it took to realize that he didn't just get mad and blow off steam like a regular person. I thought it was normal the first few times. Then, I realized it wasn't, but I was still too scared of him to leave. When I finally did, I had—have—family, and friends, and somewhere to go. I had options. You never had anyone but Wilson, and now you're torn between wanting him to come back and keep loving you, and being sweet and nice to you, while writing your prescriptions or whatever, and wanting this to never happen again. You're scared and excited, free and trapped, massively happy and totally depressed. And you don't have anybody else to go to, anywhere to be, or even a way to get there."

"So what do you suggest," I actually wanted the answer to this question, but once again there was no way that I was going to let Kutner know that particular fact. He sighed, and held my hand, which was weird but I also sort of liked.

"I'm gonna—well, me and Cameron, and probably Chase—are going to write your prescriptions from now on. And I know you need more than they'll give you, which is the main reason I agreed to this. I'll make sure you have more pills than you could ever need, logically, mentally, and physically. I'd also love it if you talked to me," he admitted, running his thumb over the back of my hand, almost sensually. I wanted to pull back but didn't quite have the nerve, not just yet. "Sorry, I'm usually better at reading people, especially the ones who are going through tough situations. I can see when you…I can see if someone's been abused, just from looking at and talking to them for a while. I just don't know when or by whom."

"Oh please, what Jimmy does is nothing. Practically nothing." I realized that my statement made me sound like a lunatic, and quickly decided to explain. "I've been through a lot worse, and it's like you said. He's nice to me most of the time, and he gives me enough pills to make me not have to be in total agony all day long. You gonna give me a hundred pills a week?" He shrugged, but not so much to say _I don't know_, but more like he was saying why not. "What about monster trucks; you like those too?"

"Now is probably not the best time to figure all this stuff out," he offered gently. _Wonderful, _I thought, pressing the button to deliver more Morphine over and over, until the machine said I was maxed out.

"You're the one who's trying to tell me that you wanna take Jimmy's place; that's the whole point of this conversation isn't it?" He blushed, a little when I suggested this, which made me even surer I was right. "You _like_ me, don't you?" He looked away. "And not the same way Cameron does." The blushing got worse. "Wow," I whispered. "So this isn't just about you trying to convince me to try and leave Wilson because he might kill me?" Another shrug. I sighed, closing my eyes, tiredly. "Leave."

"I can't," he tried to explain, almost sweetly, but also firm. "Cuddy said she'd fire us if we didn't take shifts to watch you. I said it wasn't necessary. Wilson is in prison. He can't hurt you, and even if you wanted to die, you would never try and kill yourself in the hospital." I must have looked as confused as I felt. Blame it on the painkillers and the residual terror of almost dying at the hands of my best and only friend for the _second _time in three months. "He said you told him to stab you; that he never would of done it if you hadn't dared him to." I laughed, which made my chest hurt. "I don't think he was lying, but I also think you didn't mean what you said. Just like you weren't okay with having sex with him but didn't kick and scream and try to throw him across the room."

"How long have you been in love with me," I asked, hoping to change the subject. This time he didn't blush, or look away, but he was still mildly uncomfortable. "I don't wanna talk bout Wilson unless I'm talking _to _Wilson. Oh, don't make that face! You think you can get me to open up to you because you're pathetic? Well guess what, I don't care if you witnessed fifty murders, my childhood was still unimaginably worse than anything you ever experienced, and as for your college boyfriend. What'd he do, smack you on the bottom, while you called him Daddy?"

"He broke my nose once, both of my wrists a couple of times—once both at the same time. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a college student and not even be able go to the bathroom by yourself?" I looked away. _Shit, that was stupid of me, _I thought."But you are right, what happened to me when I was little and what happened to you as a kid aren't even close to the same thing. I was messed up for the longest time, but I got better. My parents loved me just as much as my other parents did. They were always supportive, and kind, and understanding, and I. Right after the—I got put in this group home. I was only there a couple of days, but every other kid in that place talked about the crappy foster homes they'd been in. Some had been hit; some had been locked in basements." I didn't know how to respond to this. "There was this boy who was six months younger than me, and he'd had nine placements. Everyone I talked to said the exact same thing, if you were lucky, you'd get put with people who weren't mean, but just didn't care, or who were in it just for the monthly checks. If you weren't lucky, you'd get put in a place that made you wish you were living in a cardboard box on the street. I was so scared that I'd get put with a child molester, or people who were going to beat and starve me, but I…" he paused, looking away. "I was so lucky—and I know how weird that sounds considering why I was in foster care to begin with, but I was always with people who loved me, and supported me. Even when I blew up the microwave and destroyed half the kitchen when I was nine. Sorry, I went off on a bit of a tangent there."

_A bit, _I thought."What I meant was, you're right. I have no idea what you're going through, but," he explained, "I'd love it if you could one day trust me enough to tell me about what happened to you." Luckily, I didn't have to finish the conversation right then because a minute after he told me the thing about wanting us to be close, there was a knock on the door which was followed by Cameron re-entering the room.

"What did I tell you idiots about coming in here," I asked, not actually shouting, but definitely tense, uneasy. She made a face, as if to say, _Kutner's in here; _I figured things would go faster if I just let her do what she wanted.

"The police are here," she explained, standing as close to me as she thought was safe. I looked away. _Oh great, what did I do now? _"They want to take your statement," Cameron said, looking at the floor. I could tell there was something else going on, I just didn't know what. "About being stabbed. You are going to press charges right?" I felt my hands on my chin again, this time I ripped it away. "I'll stay here with you, if you like," she offered, and while I knew she was just trying to be sweet, I couldn't stop myself from being…well, myself.

"Have you ever been raped? Maybe had a little too much to drink one night, let a guy take you home, and then…judging from the expression on your face, I'm guessing the answer is no. So, if some psychotic bastard broke into your apartment tonight and did—terrible things to you, how would you feel if _I _offered to sit at your side while you talked about it?" Alison looked like she was about to start crying. Kutner squeezed my hand, a tad roughly. "Just—I'll be fine. Kutner's gonna stay, right?" He nodded. "This is difficult enough, without having to deal with you fawning all over me and trying to fit my dick in your mouth," I grunted. She left, probably crying.

"Well that was nice of you," Lawrence mocked. I shrugged. "Look, I get the whole tough guy act, but you don't have to…you didn't do that just because you could; you actually wanted her to leave, right?" I nodded, looking away. "The next time you really need to get rid of somebody—just tell me…and if I can help you, I'll take care of it, okay?" I shrugged. "You've been traumatized. You need all the help you can get right now."

"You mean, I need all the _people _I can get right now, don't you?" I rolled my eyes, and took a deep breath. "I don't want people in my life. I want Wilson in my life, but I can't have him. I'll let you idiots be nannies and do whatever you wanna do to 'protect' me, but I'm not gonna pretend like you're my _friends." _He nodded, stood up, went to the door, and opened it to let the police inside. They asked me a series of questions about my history with Wilson, and about what happened the day of the stabbing, some of it humiliating, some almost too painful to discuss, and some just plain sad. The cops asked if I had said no at any point during the 'rape.' I couldn't even look at any of them.

"Do you want me to leave," my employee asked, sweetly, almost child-like. I reached out, grabbing onto his hand, practically shrieking the word no. Jimmy was right. I knew it then. I was desperate and needy, and probably the clingiest person on the planet. I'd latched onto Kutner—the nearest warm body—like a leech, less than a day after my last boyfriend had left me.

"No," I admitted. "I knew that if I said no, or fought—Wilson was threatening to leave this job, move out of town, and never have anything to do with me again. I should of just let him...he said he'd stay if I was a 'good boy' for him. That meant letting him screw me, and giving him a blow job. I know, it sounds like it was consensual. Maybe I didn't—maybe it's not rape. I dunno. I'm so—I never fully understood what sex is. Makes my—I. Sorry, I don't really know how to answer that question." I hated myself for talking like that. I felt stupid, and pathetic, and needy, and it was so out of character for me, but I wasn't really feeling like myself anyway. I was honestly starting to doubt if I had ever known who I was to begin with. Kutner offered me his hand again, and I squeezed it as roughly as I could, which at this point wasn't actually all that hard. I was still sort of weak from getting stabbed in the right side of my chest.

"It's okay," Kutner promised. "And that _was_ rape; you don't have to kick and screaming and run away. You had sex with him because you were terrified of what he'd do if you said stop. That's rape, regardless of what these idiots say," Kutner told me, kindly, once again sounding more like a child than a doctor.

"Wow, thanks, I feel so much better," I teased. "That makes up for everything." He made puppy dog eyes at me, but understood that I was completely messed up and not capable of controlling myself (something I rarely, but usually _can _do) for the time being.

"Dr. House, we still have more questions we need you to answer," a fat, greasy haired cop who probably had a dick the size of cocktail wiener, told me. I nodded. "Can you tell us what led up to the stabbing? Did you and Dr. Wilson have an argument?" Luckily I had already gone over what happened to Amber, sort of.

"Wilson said he couldn't stay here after what happened. He was going to leave town, and me. The first thing I thought was, I'm finally free. The second thing I thought was that I couldn't live without him. So I begged Jimmy to stay. He," I stammered. "He said, 'couch,' and then 'pants' which meant take your pants off and lay on the couch so I can fuck you. He didn't—I just closed my eyes and pretended he still gave a shit about me. Afterwards, he just laughed and 'I'm still leaving.' That was the morning of the att—stabbing. Later, I went back, and apologized for being indirectly responsible for Amber's death, and I—promised to do anything he wanted, if he would stay. I started crying, and I fell to my knees. Wilson got up, and stood in front of me, he was already—he asked if I was going to be good, again. Jimmy forced to perform oral sex on him, and then he helped me lay down on the couch where he wrapped his arms around me, all sweet and nice. He wanted me comfortable and happy. He gave me my pain meds, and explained that he'd read Amber's diary and he knew I'd warned her about his temper. That's when he took the knife out of his pocket. I knew he," I paused taking another breath. "I dared him to do it. He never would of stabbed me if I hadn't told him it was okay," I sobbed. Kutner moved closer, actually getting on the bed (slowly, cautiously, making sure I was alright with it every time he got even a little bit closer to me) and wrapped his arms around my stomach.

"I think we're finished for now," he told the cops, and held me while I cried into his shirt like a baby. He whispered, "You're safe now," and "this wasn't your fault." He also said, "Wilson stabbed you because he wanted to _hurt _you. The fact that you blame yourself just proves how much power he has over you. This didn't happen because you told him you wanted to die. He had no right to lay one–and you're tired of hearing the empowerment speech, huh?" I nodded. Kutner kissed my hair, and said, "I love you." I squeezed my eyes shut; clamping my hands over my ears, but Kutner pulled one away. "Listen to me. You did not deserve this, and I'm not going to shut up until I'm 100% certain you believe me."

"What if I'm never—whatever—enough to believe you," I managed to get the words out through the tears, although I was pretty sure I'd stop soon, not because I was getting better or stronger, but because I'd simply run out of the necessary fluids. "Put the TV on, helps me sleep."

"I'm gonna give you some more morphine, okay," he offered, but I was actually doing alright. I grunted, and my eyelids sort of fluttered as I tried to open them to look at him angrily, to give him a dirty look, but he seemed to understand all the same. "You look exhausted, wanna try and get some sleep?" I shrugged. "Or not." He rubbed up and down my back, massaging my shoulders, and all the other stuff Jimmy used to do. "You wish you could talk to Wilson, don't you?" I did nothing, said nothing, and once again he read my mind, or I dunno what. "Open your eyes; I wanna make sure you get this." I refused. "Do you want me to trade shifts with everyone so it's just you and me for—however long you want or need," he asked and the guy really meant that. I shrugged. It was a tough choice. I didn't like Kutner all that much, but he was better than the rest of them, something I'd learned over the summer. But, too much of anything good or bad was annoying as all Hell. "If you aren't sure, I can stick with you tonight, and we can revisit the issue over breakfast tomorrow. Sound good?" I shrugged, again. "Do you want me to leave?" I shook my head violently, and hated that I was so incredibly weak. "This is completely normal, House. You should be feeling clingy right now. You've been through a horrific trauma, and are in excruciating pain, physical and emotional. You don't have anybody at all in the whole world, and _I'm _here now. It's natural for you to reach out and grab onto someone. That doesn't make you weak, and it's not wrong. Wilson is a bastard for doing this to you." I whimpered. "Your dad too. I'd take a gun and blow both their heads off if I thought I could sty here with you afterwards, but I'd go jail and you'd be completely and utterly alone in the Universe. And I'm the only person you—trust is the wrong word but it's the only one that comes close to describing this, right—right now."

"Maybe you're not such an idiot after all," I explained, smiling just a tiny little bit. He said what Wilson had said, only…I'm not sure, it was different somehow. Thinking back on it now, I suddenly realized that I had been afraid of Wilson from the first time he'd fucked me. I smiled weakly, and reached out to touch the side of his face. Then—I realize now I was subconsciously trying to test the guy—my hand slid down his neck, chest, stomach, and came to rest on man's crotch. Kutner gabbed my wrist, pulling it up and laying it at my side, a stern expression on his face.

"Look, if in a couple of months—or whenever—when you feel slightly more comfortable with the idea, you still want to do this with me, then we can talk about it, but I'm not gonna have sex with you just to prove that every man on the planet will rape anything weaker than them. Not to mention the fact that I'm not a top...hope that's not a deal breaker, but like I said, not tonight." I rolled my eyes. "Plus you can barely move right now." I nodded unhappily, and pressed my face back into his shoulder. "I've got you, Greg. I'm here, and I've got you." I squeezed my eyes closed even tighter, yawned, and gave him a shove.

"Those cops are coming back, aren't they? They weren't finished interrogating me," I

muttered. He shrugged. "I know what you're thinking; that I'm overreacting, they don't think I'm a suicidal whore. They weren't integrating me; everyone's on my side, blah, blah, whatever. But that's just how it feels right now," I explained, hating myself for feeling so weak and sad. He nodded, and kissed my hair again. Then, he started to hum softly. "I want Jimmy," I whimpered, sadly. I felt his head move back and forth on top of mine. _I know, _Kutner was saying. "I don't know how I'm—could I be more pathetic?"

"You aren't sure how you're going to be able to handle dealing with life, the world, your pain, and everything else without him. I told you; I've been there. It sucks. And it's going to keep on sucking, for a long time. Then, one day you'll wake up, shower, get dressed, go to work, come home, and you'll suddenly realize that you haven't so much as thought about Wilson for three weeks. Then, you'll go six weeks without thinking about him, then three months, then years, then…you get the picture?" I rolled my eyes. "That's still a yes, but you'd prefer it if I change the subject. Wanna see the ugly flowers Taub sent? Or how about the card that Cuddy picked out and then signed while she was standing in the doorway? No, not quite funny enough, uh? Okay, how about this. Cameron got you a stuffed animal." This time I blushed.

"Is a bear, or a bunny," I managed to ask. He smiled, reaching under the bed, and pulled out a rather large stuffed bear, with blue fur. "Oh, goodie, just what I always wanted."

"What you never had a transitional object?" I shook my head. "But you were forced to give it up when you weren't old enough to cope with that?" I shrugged. _It was a stupid frog, I didn't need the thing. I never needed the thing. _Kutner pushed the teddy bear down under my arm. "If anyone asks, I'll say it's _mine, _okay?" I pouted a bit, but didn't throw the thing across the room. "Just try it for tonight. If it doesn't work, I'll take Mr. Bear away, and we can pour lighter fluid all over the thing, set it on fire, and watch him burn. Or whatever you want, okay?" I shrugged, but actually didn't see any reason not to go along with what he'd suggested.

"You tell anybody bout this, ever, and I swear," I started. "I mean, I want—if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll not only fire you, I'll have your fucking medical license, got it?" He smiled, and nodded, and kissed my right temple. I closed my eyes, and yawned. "I miss Jimmy," I whispered, before falling asleep. That night, I had this dream where I had a little scab on my leg, and I started to pick at it, and I peeled away all the bad skin, but as soon as I'd done that, the area all around the wound had started to rot. So, then I needed to pick those infected pieces off too. After that, there were all these gross, white, scabby, infected rings coming out of the hole. I peeled that stuff away too. It kept getting worse and worse like that, and I couldn't stop myself. It hurt so much, I finally had to call in my team, and Cuddy (and I think Wilson) to help me. They brought me downstairs and did a bunch of tests but the news was not good. Because I kept on picking at my leg, and pulling away more and more flesh, the wound was deep, and really, really bad. The infection had gotten into the muscle and fat and there was nothing they could do but remove all the damaged tissue. I was going to be a legless freak after all. I woke up sweating bullets, absolutely fucking terrified.

"It's okay, House. You're okay; you were just having a bad dream. And everything is alright," Kutner explained, lovingly running his hands through my hair, and kissing my forehead. I tried to pull myself away from him, not so much because I wasn't alright with being touched, but because I absolutely, positively needed to check my leg, to make sure it was still there. He rubbed my shoulders again. "What is it?" I told him. "Okay, come here, I'm gonna show you your leg so you can see it's still exactly the same as it was before you fell asleep. I smiled, weakly, and lay still as he pulled back the blanket and lifted up my gown just enough to show me my perfect (except for the huge chunk of missing thigh muscle and the awful scar) leg. "Better?" I shivered, but didn't –couldn't—actually respond. "It's not that easy, is it?" I nodded. "Want more meds? I know I'm probably insulting you, just offering pain meds to make up for the fact that Wilson kept raping and beating the crap out of you until he stabbed you in the heart yesterday, but I don't know what else you want, or need. You can tell me."

"That's what I usually do, pop too many pills, guzzle three or four beers, and lie on the sofa and stare at the TV, pretending that…I can't believe I'm telling you this!" I rubbed my chin again, and tried to move into a more comfortable position. Kutner gave me a gentle, _that's okay, _face. "I want it to stop, I wanna make it—do you think you think you could get me some Propranolol? I read this article where it said they can use the stuff to erase traumatic memories. I don't wanna know about what happened to me last night." He scooted closer to me, wrapping his arms around my body more tightly, and kissed the top of my head. "You think I should wait?"

"If you do want to go through with the procedure, you need to have a licensed therapist in the room, talking you through what happened, monitoring your vitals, and you have to do like four sessions with a psychologist before the treatment," he explained, scratching his neck a little. "With what I saw you think I haven't thought about this before? I almost—I went through the whole thing, right up to the actual procedure, and then I realized that I only have a handful of memories of them. I can tell you every single thing that happened that day. Good and bad, and as much as it sucks, that day was also sort of not that terrible. Or it was great, until the asshole brought the gun out," he said, looking humiliated. My mom pushed me down in this little cabinet thing, and closed the door; so I'd be safe, and she…they said they," Kutner stuttered, eyes watering, hand shaking, as he tried to look at anything other than me. "We were playing a card game, and then…I'm sorry. Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that if you want to do this treatment, I will support you, but I can't actually perform it for," he explained, and I nodded. "Give yourself some time, think it over, okay?" I shrugged. "Do you think feel up to going back to sleep," he asked sweetly. I shrugged, and pouted a little. "Why don't we stay awake and watch crappy infomercials or something?" I shrugged again. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" I shook my head, reconsidered, and shrugged one last time.

"Why," I asked, feeling extremely tired, but having absolutely no interest whatsoever in trying to get to sleep. I opened my eyes and stared into his soft, kind eyes. "I mean, why do you like me? Why are you doing this?" This time he shrugged, and went back to rubbing my shoulders. "So what, you think we're kindred spirits?"

"No," he admitted, blushing just a tiny little bit. "I think that I've been through a lot, and you've been through a lot; so maybe if we just…you know, maybe. Maybe we can be friends or something. Maybe we can be more," Kutner offered, more and more childish by the minute. I practically screamed at him, but managed to control myself at the last moment. I wanted to laugh in the guy's face, call him an idiot or something, but the truth was that I didn't hate the idea too much. It wasn't the best thing I'd ever heard, but I also didn't hate it as much as I had been pretending. Lawrence had a point. I wouldn't be able to handle being all alone and helpless and hurting, especially with Jimmy in jail. I needed someone.

"Okay," I said at last, after what felt like an eternity, but was most likely only about fifteen or twenty minutes (maybe thirty tops) and then I pushed my legs around a bit so I could watch him, but wouldn't get too uncomfortable over the next few hours. "I'll think about letting you be my friend. But I'm not going to have sex with you, understand?" He looked like he might consider arguing with me for a minute and then thought better. Kid could probably tell how exhausted I was, and as such decided not to push me again, at least not for a while. Kutner nodded, leaned in to kiss my cheek, pulled back, and finally decided on a tight but sweet hug.

"I think us being friends is a good place to start. Even if that's all we ever are, I don't mind. Also, you don't have to treat me any differently in front of the rest of the team; you don't have to be nice to me when we're alone either. Don't worry about it. I don't really care about that stuff. I know you don't know how to treat people, and when you're rude to me for what feels like no reason, you're probably just trying to figure out how to act."

"I know the right way to act," I replied, angrily. "Don't be stupid! I know what's appropriate and what's not, I just don't bother to do the right thing. Actually I usually do the wrong thing on purpose 'cuz I don't care."

"Same difference," he sort of teased. And then the phone started to ring. Even though we were in the hospital, and Jimmy was in jail, we both knew that it was him calling me some how. "Let me get that," he offered, and I thought about the offer for a minute before making up my mind.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, I gotta do this for myself," I insisted, reaching to trying and grab the phone. Barely able to move without agonizing pain in my chest and shoulder, I screamed, and fell back against the mattress. "Ah, crap! You'd think this wouldn't hurt so much with all the painkillers." The phone continued to ring. "Hand it over."

Kutner picked up the receiver said, "Hang on a minute," into the mouth piece and then placed the thing face down on my tray. He massaged my shoulder softly. The pain melted away. "Better?" I shrugged, cautiously. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"I have to. But, if it sounds like I'm folding, take the phone away from me and hang up." He made sad puppy dog eyes. "He only gets one phone call! I can't pretend I'm not around." The kid sighed, loudly. "It's not like he's here and trying to climb into my bed. Besides, I have to be the one to end it. If I don't, probably just go back to him..." Finally he gave me the handset. "What do you want, Wilson?"

"You were bleeding, and you kept asking for me, and some stupid security guard tackled me when I tried to go with and hold your hand, and I had no idea if you were even alive or dead. No one will tell me anything! I need to know you're alive. I need to hear your voice. I need to be sure you're alright."

"Of course I'm not alright! You fucking stabbed me," I shouted. I could hear him all but sobbing. I almost felt bad for the guy. Almost. Then, I realized that this was just another attempt to manipulate me. Everything he did was designed to force me to do what he wanted. "Seriously, what do you really want?"

"But you're going to be alright. You'll get better, won't you," he asked, worriedly. I reached for Kutner's hand and squeezed it with all the strength in my pathetic, weak body. I managed to laugh into the phone.

"Chase managed to fix the hole you made in my heart, and sewed me back up. I needed two pints of blood, and I'm on antibiotics in case that filthy knife you plunged in my chest gave me a massive infection, but I won't lose any organs and, with a lot of physical therapy, I should regain some function in my right arm." _Meanwhile I probably won't be able to walk anymore, 'cuz my left arm is significantly weaker than my right and I can't hold myself up with it. _"At least you didn't make them rip half my arm out," I muttered.

"I'm so sorry, Baby," he whispered, lovingly. _No, he doesn't love you_, I thought. He was just trying to get back on my good side. "I _am _sorry." He was always all are. Even my dad used to apologize after beating the shit out of me. My hands were shaking, I could barely breathe. My heart was literally ripping in half. I could picture Jimmy in some dank, dirty prison, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, shoulders slumped, head lowered, dark bags under his red, bloodshot eyes. He was scared at the aspect of spending any real time in prison. I felt guilty and wanted to help but Kutner's smile gave me strength, although for the life of me I couldn't understand why.

"So are you sorry for the rape or for the forcing me to suck you off while simultaneously threatening to leave? Or are you sorry for trying to kill me," I asked, sounding far more brave than I felt. "Or are you sorry for all the other shit you've done to me over the last twenty years? Or for what you did to your wives or for what you did to Amber the night day before died? She told me you raped her too, that's why she came to get me!" I knew saying this to him was probably a mistake but figured I was safe since he was in prison. "I'm hanging up right now, and never speaking to you again."

"I'm sorry for all of it," he admitted. I looked away, biting down on my lower lip to keep from saying anything more. "I've been terrible to you and I don't expect you to ever forgive me. In fact, I_ want_ you to press charges. I need to go to jail. That's the only way I'll stay in therapy, the only way I can get better for you." _Damn he's good, _I thought. He knew all the right buttons to push to make me do what he wanted. Luckily I was strong enough to stand up for myself, barely.

"No, you just think you can make me forgive you, get me to drop the charges so you can go home. You told me to call the cops when you broke my arm too, remember? We came home, and I actually worked up the nerve to call 9-1-1 and you begged me to help you, broke down, sobbed and admitted that your dad used to hit you and your brothers sometimes. The only reason I didn't send you to prison was because I thought you were punishing yourself enough," I admitted, looking away from Lawrence. Suddenly I really did care what that idiot man-child thought of me. I heard Wilson sigh, grinding his teeth, but the guy kept his cool. He didn't scream at me. "You got any new lies or are you slinging more of the same old bullshit?"

"I will always love you, even if you do press charges and make them send me jail. I love you so much, but I have a problem that I need help for. I belong in this place," he sobbed.

"I'm not the one sending you to jail," I said, barely able to keep from crying myself. "You tried to _kill_ me. I can't hide that! I can't do this anymore. It's over. We're over. That's what you want anyway, right?" My hands continued trembling; I was so scared I was physically shaking. That's when it hit me. Wilson never really intended to leave. He said he was to make me beg him to stay, to gain even more power over me. Even after he read about my telling Amber to leave him things didn't change.

He decided that if he couldn't have me, then no one should. He was going to kill me and then himself, I was about 76% sure. This came to me so quickly that I had time to say what I'd discovered before he responded but I didn't. I let Jimmy try and defend himself, too see if he would bother with the truth.

"Not like this, never like this," he swore, once again sounding almost sweet, but I knew better. "House, I _do_ love you; I didn't mean any of the cruel things I said in my office. You—you're right. We should be done. You should leave me. You deserve to be with someone good, somebody who will treat you right." He just kept doing that, saying the exact same thing over and over in slightly different ways.

"Stop," I demanded. "I can't. I just _can't_ anymore. I'm not strong enough, Jimmy." He sighed. This time it wasn't because he was angry at me, but out of genuine concern. "Well the good news is you won't have to worry about working together anymore. Even if you don't lose your license for this, no hospital in this country will hire you again, and I'm quitting my job here. Might even retire completely."

"You can't do that," he screeched. I sighed this time. _Why the Hell not? _"You are the best diagnostician in the world. And I'm not just saying that. The world needs you to be a doctor. You _can't _leave." _Goodie, you're Henry Jekyll today. Just what I need! _

"I don't exactly hold your opinion in the highest regard right about now. Stop trying to make me forgive you or I really will hang up." It was a lie. I didn't have the strength to hang up on him. I wasn't positive I could disobey Jimmy if he told me to convince everybody that I'd stabbed myself and he tried to stop me. Part of me wondered if I'd ever be able to say no to him.

"No you won't," he said, forcefully. Guy actually sounded happy about it. "You still love me, still want me back." _Damnit, _I thought. _He isn't gonna get better, he won't ever change. _I knew that if he did get convicted on attempted murder (which seemed unlikely) he'd probably only get sentenced to 20 years in prison at the very most, and be out on parole in 15 with good behavior. I knew he would come after me as soon as he got out. And the worst part was that he was right. I did want him back. If he came home with an apology and whatever narcotics he'd been able to sneak out of the prison, I'd probably forgive him…and take the drugs. Wilson wasn't the one who needed therapy. Well, he did but I needed it more.

"Okay, you're right but Kutner's sitting right next to me, and he will." Wilson didn't say anything. I started to feel guilty. "All the idiots are taking turns keeping an eye on me," I muttered, in a pathetic attempt to excuse my having basically cheated on him. I felt very guilty for being in bed with another man and didn't want Jimmy to think I was doing something wrong and get mad at me. I was about to add, 'apparently Cuddy is stupid enough to think you'll break out of jail and try to kill me again,' or something.

"Do you at least feel safe now that I'm in jail?" _Nope. _"Greg, I wanna—I'm sorry," he whispered. "Will you, uh. Can you…I _am_ sorry. I'm gonna tell my lawyer to talk to the prosecutor. To not even ask for bail."

"Oh good, the guilt trip, we haven't seen that one in a while." He sounded like he was about to scream at me or reach through the phone line and smack me across the face.

"Tell me what to do," he pleaded. "If you want me to confess to what I've done I can do that. I'll go to anger management, lots and lots and lots of treatment. I won't hurt you anymore," Wilson lied. "Never again, House; never again."

"Leave me alone, forever," I said but what I really meant was, "_Come back, promise not to hurt me anymore, and keep the promise this time_." He knew it. I knew it. Hell, even Kutner knew it. There just wasn't anything us do. Jimmy and me were both broken and we belonged together, like those left over screws and bolts you find after putting together a piece of cheep, crappy furniture.

"Alright, I'll do it. I'll stay away," he swore. It was a lie.

"Damn straight," I murmured, "won't be able to touch me through the bars of your cell. And that's exactly where you're going." Only, we both knew I'd never testify and without me, he had a good chance at get off easy.

"Do you have any idea what jail will be like for someone who looks like me? I'm gonna get passed around more than a—I don't even need a metaphor for it. You know what will happen."

"Well metaphors are usually my territory," I said, proud of myself for not giving in to him yet. "Bang your head against the wall a couple dozen times. That'll break your own nose, cover your pretty face in bruises…bad guys will stay away just long enough for you to find the biggest, toughest guy in the place and kneecap him. I know you're not as tough as you useda be, after all beating up on a cripple is easy as fuck but you'll do fine, eventually," I said, laughing a little. "The crazy guy never gets raped, even if he looks like a chick. People are too scared he'll bite their dick off just for the Hell of it."

"And how are you going to survive without me writing prescriptions four times a week? Who's gonna hold you after your nightmares, drive your drunk ass home, take the 3:00 AM phone calls? What about monster trucks? You're so busy thinking about the bad between us, you forgot the good stuff I do." I almost hung up then, but I knew he'd see it as a sign of my weakness, call back somehow, and be able to talk me into doing whatever he wanted me to.

"I'll figure out a way to survive. It's what I do. Listen, Jimmy, I'd love to hear you tell me what a pathetic screw up I am for the next couple hours but if I don't hang up soon, I'm gonna take you back, and I can't—next time you won't screw it up. Next time you're actually gonna kill me," I said, took a deep breath and was about to let Kutner hang up for me when Wilson said something else.

"I _do_ love you, and I wanna get better so we can be together again some day," he told me, with 100% conviction. He really, truly meant that. Then again, he almost always meant whatever he said in the moment. Just like how Jimmy was always sorry afterwards, he always wanted to stop. He just had no control over his temper. _But, who knows_, I thought. _Maybe this time he will do better_. If he got real help in prison and didn't try to hurt or trick me, I might consider talking to him when he came back, but that was a really big if.

"Me too, Jimmy," I said, and then, "Goodbye."

"I love you," he sobbed, but after all these years those words didn't mean much. Jimmy always said he loved me; my father even said 'I love you, Greggy,' while he was fucking my pre-pubescent brains out. Maybe love is a prerequisite for abusive relationships. All that anger has to come from passion of some kind.

Maybe not.

Either way, I had always believed that love was something completely messed up and cruel, not something good or pure between two people. _I can't even comprehend basic human emotions_, I realized all of the sudden, and wasn't sure what I ought to do with my life or myself. "House," he called out, more than a little bit concerned. He almost sounded like he still expected me to say it back.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I muttered. I wanted not to repeat that phrase. I wanted not to feel anything for him. I wanted to be brave and strong, and kind, and everything else that I'm supposed to be, and wasn't. "I love you too," I confessed at last, "but that doesn't—I'm not. I'm sorry," I whispered, pathetically. Kutner grabbed the phone out of my hand and slammed the receiver down. "What'd you do that for? I wasn't gonna fold." Lawrence wrapped his arms around me tightly.

"Yes you were. You were thirty seconds away from dropping the charges, getting rid of me and the rest of your body guards, checking out against medical advice and going home with him," he told me. I shrugged. "You said goodbye; you said you loved him, you yelled at the guy. You swore you wouldn't forgive him, what else did you wanna say?" I shrugged again, and depressed the button on my Morphine pump. "You wanted to hear him say he loved you again. You wanted him to apologize and mean it, and most importantly, you wanted him to promise not to hurt you any more and keep that promise," he figured out. _I never should have hired you, _I thought. _Maybe if I'd picked CTB Jimmy might have stayed away from her and we woulda been okay. _"But we both know that he'll never do that. He won't stop. He's not capable. Not just yet," Kutner warned. "He might get better eventually. He could do well in therapy, and being in prison might rehabilitate him; I hope it does. I hope it does because Wilson's the only friend you've ever really had, and you aren't gonna do so good without him."

"Please stop. I know that, all those things. I'm a pathetic, needy, pussy cripple who can't survive on his own and needs to be taken care of by ten-year-olds. Jimmy's an asshole who may or may not start being nice to me one day. But, chances are, he's probably going to leave prison the exact same guy he went in as and will most likely never really be good to anyone. That was the point of your diatribe, correct?"

"I guess it didn't really have one, I just wanted to cheer you up, but wasn't completely sure how to do it; so I was sort of…I dunno what I'm doing. Sorry." I leaned back in the bed and let Kutner put his arms around my shoulders, even though I was slightly uncomfortable in that position. "I don't know what I was thinking, Greg; sorry." I shrugged again, _whatever. _"Wanna try and get some more sleep before breakfast?" I wasn't sure what I should do or say. "If the answer is no, or I'm not tired, that's fine. I won't force anything on you. You can go a day without sleep. Especially since you're in the hospital and won't have to get out of bed except for maybe thirty minutes this afternoon."

"Enough," I grunted, annoyed. "If I promise to try and sleep will you shut up?" He shrugged, uncomfortably. I made a sound to try and show off how annoyed I was. He was hiding or holding something back. "That's not even close to good enough. I want an answer, a real one. Doesn't matter _what_ the answer is."

"Well it would be mean to keep talking while you were trying to sleep, wouldn't it?" I nodded, sort of curling up at his side. I was having a hard time finding a comfortable position, which is the norm for any hospital bed. "I'll shut up now, okay?" I nodded, and let him pull the covers up over my shoulders again, as he kissed the top of my head. I didn't particularly like that, but I wasn't disgusted by it either. It just felt weird to have someone be so tender with or even around me. I awoke sometime later. There was a food tray on the table by my bed.

"How much of this crap do I hafta eat," I moaned. He gave me the puppy dog eyes again, and I pulled away from him slightly. Kutner reached for the table, swinging it around so it was right over my lap. "I can't really move my arm," I said, as pathetically as possible. He nodded, and took the lid off my meal tray for me. "Oh God, that smells awful. Doesn't look very good either."

"You want to go on IV nutrition? I'm not trying to threaten you, I just—it might go down more easily, so to speak." I smiled, which I'm pretty sure had been his intention.

"No, I think I'll try and tackle this garbage," I muttered, and watched Lawrence cut up pieces of food, spear a bit of crappy hospital pancake onto his fork, dip it in syrup and bring it towards my mouth. I ate the thing begrudgingly. "Wilson is a really good cook. He makes these pancakes with macadamia nuts inside," I explained, pouting. "I really am the most pathetic person on the planet, and don't bother telling me otherwise." He patted my good arm. _I thought I told you to stop doing that. _

"You don't need me to tell you all the things you're good at or how you're human and have your faults, right?" I shook my head. "Wilson was a huge part of your life for almost twenty years. Even if he hadn't ever laid a hand on you, even if you were just friends for two decades and he walked away because he was depressed over Amber dying, you'd still miss him like crazy. Losing him would have destroyed you no matter how good or bad he was. And Wilson is perfect, except that he occasionally beats the crap out of and rapes you. Why wouldn't you want the only person who's ever really loved you back?"

I shrugged, not really sure what to do, say or think. I wasn't getting better, which wasn't surprising as it had only been a day but part of me really expected things to change right away. He tried to give me more hunks of undercooked pancakes and rotten-smelling eggs, but I twisted out of his reach. "Stop fighting, or they're gonna come in here, stick a tube down your nose and into your stomach to force-feed you."

"They hardly ever do that anymore, and if I say my stomach is really, really, really, really, really upset, they won't even bother in my case. Someone'll bring me a Ruben for lunch and it'll make up for this. I'm not anorexic. Besides, no one cares. Leave me alone." He sighed. "I'm an ass. Only you and Cuddy care if I live and she only gives a crap 'cause I'm an asset to the hospital. And you…well, I'm old enough to be your dad. Let's leave it at that."

"You're probably right. But I—we—can't leave you alone. Cuddy won't let us. I'm gonna need to leave in a little while this afternoon, I wanna go out and buy some stuff to keep you entertained for a little while. Probably only work for, like, ten minutes but it's better than nothing, right?" I smiled, weakly, and then sighed. "I'll see if she'll let you be alone with the doctor when you go down for physical therapy."

"What if I don't wanna do that," I asked, but what I really thought was _isn't it a little soon to be starting PT? I just had surgery and can barely move; what exactly do they expect me to do?_

"You don't wanna get better," he teased, way more shocked by me than I'd ever seen him. I sighed, loudly. "I know, you probably have significant loss of function but you need to regain as much use of your arm as you can."

"Excuse me," I managed to grunt. Kutner was dangerously close to figuring out a secret—if he hadn't already done so—I'd been hiding from the world for most of my life. Even Wilson didn't know about it.

"You favor your right arm, even use the cane on that side, which is weird because your injury is on the same side and most people tend to use a cane opposite their injury. Like they're supposed to." He put his hand on top of mine.

"Since when do I ever do _anything _I'm supposed to?" _Besides wearing a helmet when I ride my bike, and use a seatbelt in the car—technically both of those are on Jimmy's orders though—and not peeing on myself in public? _"I'm a rebel, what can I say?"

"You were abused by your dad, then Wilson, and most likely by a few others in between. My guess is that your left arm has been broken or inured twice as many times than the other one, which is why it didn't heal as well, which is why it's weaker, which is why you use the cane on the correct side. If your right arm doesn't get stronger, you won't be able to support yourself on it, and won't be able to use the cane anymore. You'll have to start using a wheelchair or—if your lucky a—walker." I sighed yet again, and looked away. I hate having people know my private stuff. I hate having people know anything about me, and in two days Kutner had learned more than Jimmy did in the first five years of our relationship.

"Eleven fractures to one or more—at a time—of the various wrist bones and three to my upper arm before I was eighteen. When I was little, my dad would grab me by the arm and yank up, twisting the thing. He did that all the time. After a while, I figured out that if he grabbed my left arm instead of my right one, I could still write, and brush my teeth, feed myself, and stuff until I got the casts off. I was six when I learned. Before that, I'd had an even number on each side. Only managed to break righty on two more occasions, and I was drunk one of those times. Not sure if it counts," I admitted. "You happy now or do you wanna get your rocks off? 'Cause if that's the cause I can tell you all about my daddy doing me." He looked completely humiliated, as I'd wanted. "Sorry, I sort of overreacted there." I still don't know why I do those sorts of things. "I just—once I start I can't stop. Gets me in trouble all the time."

"You didn't wanna talk about it and I pushed you. This time was my fault. Wilson knows your buttons too. Sometimes it doesn't hurt him more than it hurts you. As far as the PT goes, I think they just wanna check you out, see if all your parts are in working order, check the oil, make sure you got enough air in your tires."

"Oh, that was just pitiful," I snickered. He smiled, as if to say I did it on purpose."Pointing out what a huge idiot you are isn't going to make me feel better about getting raped, stabbed, and dumped all in one day." He apologized. "What are you going out to buy?"

"A magic kit, they sell this box full of tricks, a special deck of cards, and a wand at a toy store I sometimes go to. Take your shot." I did. "If you really don't want to show me," he started to say, and blushed a little. "I like watching you do that stuff last time, and it seemed like you sort of enjoyed it too." I tried to make my face look like I didn't give a crap, but it was a tiny bit fun doing those tricks. He was the least bad to hang out with too.

"Maybe I kinda, sort of, didn't completely hate it," I said, quietly. "But you don't hafta go out and buy me anything. I—just feels sort of weird. Like you're buying me—I dunno… Maybe I'm a little afraid of you trying to buy my affection or something." _He's doing what Wilson does when he gives you stronger pain meds because he wants something. This is what you're worth to him, a $20 magic kit. At least Jimmy thinks you're worth stuff that could theoretically sell for thousands of dollars._

"I'm not buying the kit for you_. _It's going to be my magic kit; you'll just be borrowing it to show me how to do the tricks." I shrugged, and stared at the TV. "Take a couple more bites," he practically begged. I said no, but didn't fight when he brought another forkful of pancake to my mouth. "Just two more, please?" I did what he said, and sat back to watch some show I had no interest in at all. He kept quiet and sat in the chair by my bed for the next couple of hours. He moved out of the bed because during the day people actually walked in and out of my room and up and down the hall, and there was more of a chance of us being seen. At least that was what I thought. I fell asleep again, compliments of the narcotics, and didn't have any nightmares. The next time I woke up, Cameron and Kutner were standing close by but probably standing as far away from me as they could get. I could hear them arguing. I kept my eyes shut; so they wouldn't notice me.

"He'll probably stay asleep the whole time you're gone; don't worry about it," she said but Kutner refused to walk away without telling me. I liked that.

"I'm not going to leave while he's still asleep. He's in the middle of a difficult transition we should make sure he's—as comfortable as possible. Go get your hair done or something. Or get him a freaking sandwich. Nobody cares who's here, as long as House isn't alone."

"I'm not incompetent. I can handle _him_. What exactly do you think is going to happen if you leave us alone?" I wasn't too worried about her figuring out that I didn't despise him half as much as the rest of them, but I was worried that someone might figure out about him liking me and me not shutting the kid down straight off.

"Of course you're not incompetent. I wasn't suggesting…look, Alison, he's been through—" Kutner started to explain. Then, he realized I wasn't sleeping anymore but that she had no idea. So he did something to cheer me up a little. "He doesn't react well to change and I don't want House to freak out. It's stupid of me, really. There's no reason you wouldn't do a great job at taking care of him. I'll call you when he wakes up. Unless you _want _to climb into bed with House, maybe hold, cuddle, or screw him." I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek (hard) to keep from laughing.

"Fine," Cameron huffed, and—I assume—stormed off. There was a short pause. Then, Kutner sat back down on the mattress, his body so close I could feel the fabric of his jeans against the back of my hand. He leaned in and kissed my hair once again.

"She's gone; you can stop pretending to sleep," he explained, whispering almost directly into my ear. I opened my eyes. "I'm sorry I almost blew our cover, but I don't think—like I said to her, you wouldn't of done so good if you had fallen asleep in the hospital, with me and woken up alone. Well, with Cameron here you wouldn't be _alone, _but it's still weird. I gave you some more pain meds while you were asleep. Your…I thought you'd wake up if it started to hurt again, and I didn't want to interrupt your sleep cycle. Is that okay?"

"Is it okay that you helped me get stoned? Yeah, I have a _huge_ problem with what you did. Bad Kutner! You're fired," I mocked. He looked away, blushing slightly.

"But that's not the problem, is it?" I didn't like that he knew this, but I nodded all the same. "You'd rather be awake when you take your meds. Because it would really suck if you were awake and in pain and couldn't do anything, since someone maxed out your pain meds while you were sleeping. Right?" I looked away pathetically. "Do you want me to shut up and leave you alone?" I tried to shrug but he was looking at me like a parent or something, so stern, concerned, and whatever that I couldn't. "Want me to shut up and stay?" I nodded, staring at the television again. There isn't much to do when you're stuck in the hospital, and TV is a great way to kill time.

"What is this Nickelodeon," I mocked, referring to his choice of programming. Kutner only blushed a little bit. Then, he got all nervous and concerned again.

"You said having the TV on helped you sleep. I just—I'm not watching this. Not really. Did I do something wrong? Did I screw up?" His eyes were big and full of worry.

"No, you didn't screw up. I knew you were a little kid, but shit man." He changed the channel quickly. "You really _like_ me don't you? Cameron thought she was in love with me, but she just wanted—and technically still does—to fix me. But you…you actually likeme."

"Why is this so surprising? Didn't I say the exact same thing last night," he asked, reaching up and stroking the side of my cheek. He kissed my hair again. I didn't push him away this time. "I'm sorry; I don't really know what you need." I shrugged. "I'm gonna go—now," he explained as Cameron returned. I nodded, and curled up as much as I could. It wasn't a trying to hide from an imaginary monster or attempting to get back into some fetal state; I feel more comfortable on my side with my legs bent a little. I looked back over my shoulder, watching Lawrence getting smaller and smaller until the elevator doors shut and he disappeared. Part of me was positively terrified that he might be leaving forever. _Shit, _I thought; _I'm falling for him._


End file.
